


Cast Aside

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 78,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he rode out of Paris, tears once more clouding his vision and despair pooling in his belly, he couldn’t help but wonder at how easily he seemed to have been cast aside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to 2015 - I hope the new year has been treating everyone well so far! At the prompting of one of my lovely readers, I've decided to start posting my newest story. This one was started in mid-December and does not reflect anything happening in series 2, so apologies if it ends up diverging from canon at some point. As usual, I'll do my best to post one chapter per day until it's done. If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy!

Looking back, he actually had no idea when it had happened, but at some point, things had irrevocably and undeniably changed. He knew of their reputation – _the inseparables_. It was touted like a banner throughout Paris and one would have to be new to the city or completely blind and deaf to be unaware of whom people spoke when these words passed their lips.

 

Sometimes the words were spoken in contempt – _the_ _inseparables_ who had foiled a bandit’s plans or discovered a rebel’s plotting, waltzing in as though the act of routing the criminals was the simplest of things, each subsequent success only adding to their reputation. Other times the words were spoken in reverence – _the_ _inseparables_. The three men who embodied loyalty, honor and brotherhood; who did their duty no matter the odds that faced them, and wielded all manner of weapon with grace and agility, as though an extension of their own bodies. In darker corners, the words were sometimes spoken in envy – _the inseparables_. The trio who do anything for their brothers in arms and had on multiple occasions gone against the Cardinal’s and the Captain’s wishes, triumphing regardless. It seemed these men were untouchable; they could not be killed, would not be punished, and their reputation merely grew with each exciting retelling of their exploits.

 

_The inseparables_. At one time he’d been in awe of them as well, viewing them as many others had, entranced by their skills, seeking to live up to the high standards they embodied and gladly willing to do anything that kept him in their privileged company. He’d heard the few disparaging comments about them, but had dismissed those as the comments of the ignorant, the foolish and the jealous, knowing in his heart that these men were pure and true and he would never be amongst any greater than these three.

 

In the early days they’d embraced him into their midst, shifting to allow him into their tight-knit group and both welcoming and supporting him. They shared freely of their knowledge when training him, extended their friendship and camaraderie and made him feel as though he’d found his place in the world after having been set adrift with the death of his father. Most importantly, they gave him a purpose by showing him his own path to duty and the brotherhood within the Musketeers. And three had become four.

 

When he’d received his commission, the kind-hearted humour of his friends warmed his heart, and he was not bothered at all by the advice he seemed be receiving from the three men almost constantly about how to be a good Musketeer. He was an apprentice, they told him, and he’d accepted the words with a good-natured roll of his eyes. As the apprentice he was often relegated to the tasks the others didn’t want to do: gathering firewood when they camped outside under the stars, cleaning up the dishes after a meal, ensuring their tack was spotless and in good repair. He took it in stride, knowing his apprenticeship wouldn’t last forever and reasoning with himself that they all had their part to play in the successful functioning of their group, and a good Musketeer wouldn’t shirk his duties, regardless how menial they might seem.

 

Then, slowly, things seemed to shift. Aramis and Porthos spent their evenings enjoying their individual pursuits and more nights than not, d’Artagnan fell into the role of Athos’ keeper, keeping him safe when his drunken words started a fight and ensuring he made it back to his bed at the end of the night. Then he would stumble home himself to catch what precious few hours remained, heartened by the fact that he’d cared for his friend who, without a doubt, would do the same for him.

 

Porthos’ needs required more deception, acting as a distraction during high-stakes card games when the large man was determined to win. While players were preoccupied with his antics, Porthos would very intentionally manipulate the game to his advantage, cheating mercilessly while d’Artagnan took the blame. They had managed to escape unscathed for the most part, except that one time a few weeks back when the card d’Artagnan had been slipped by the other Musketeer revealed his cheating to the table when another player had the same card already in his hand. That night the Gascon had been lucky to get away with nothing more than some badly bruised ribs and a jaw that ached for days from the post that he’d been run into face first. Again, d’Artagnan felt no malice toward his friend, recognizing that much of Porthos’ need to win at cards stemmed from a childhood with nothing; who was he to begrudge the man his ability to win a few extra coins gambling.

 

Aramis was a different story yet again, and while he needed little help in securing female companionship, he did call on d’Artagnan to run all manner of errands, running out of time to complete them himself after laying too long in the arms of his latest conquest. As such, the Gascon found himself delivering flowers to one of the man’s lady friends, running out to buy herbs that the medic had forgotten and needed in order to resupply his medical supplies, and picking up the man’s laundry when his friend couldn’t make it there himself. Once again, d’Artagnan felt proud of the fact that he was able to help his friend, understanding that each man had their own way of dealing with the traumas they’d endured and Aramis’ happened to involve the fairer sex. While some criticized his womanizing habits, the Gascon accepted them just as he accepted all of the good and bad in his friends; just as they accepted all of him.

 

Until they didn’t. The first time it happened was the end of a long week, spent riding hard in pursuit of some bandits terrorizing travelers, culminating with a short encounter that left all the men bruised and sore, d’Artagnan sporting a large knot on his temple, which had caused a minor concussion. By the time they’d ridden through the garrison gates with the bandits in tow, he could barely keep his seat and wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep until the pounding in his head abated. As they’d handed their prisoners off to be taken to the Chatelet, Porthos looked meaningfully at Aramis who’d nodded back and turned to d’Artagnan. “We’re off.” The sharpshooter tilted his head meaningfully in Athos’ direction before clapping Porthos on the back, and the two walked out of the garrison side by side, Athos following several steps behind. For several moments d’Artagnan considered letting the man go by himself, but he knew that the other two had entrusted their lieutenant to his care, so with a sigh, he hurried to catch up.

 

The next time d’Artagnan had been sent away by Aramis to collect an item the man had mistakenly left behind at a lady’s house, claiming he couldn’t go himself because he’d been ordered to parade duty at the palace. It was not the Gascon’s favorite thing to do, always wary of encountering a cuckold husband, but he nodded agreeably enough and went to do as he’d been asked. What his friend hadn’t mentioned was that he was also to be at the palace and his absence earned him a 15-minute diatribe from the Captain as well as stable duties for two weeks, which needed to be completed around his regular training and other tasks. Aramis had sheepishly apologized, explaining that he’d believed d’Artagnan would be able to make it back in time given how swiftly he ran, and the Gascon had forgiven him.

 

Now, d’Artagnan sat on his bed with trembling hands, re-reading the letter that had arrived that morning, asking him to make haste to return to Gascony to stand by his uncle’s side. He wasn’t close to the man who was his mother’s brother-in-law, therefore, technically not even related by blood, but family was family. It seemed that the man was experiencing trouble of some sort and was now sending for d’Artagnan, his own marriage never producing any children before his wife died and having no other family who might help. Chewing his lip, the Gascon considered the situation, reluctant to ask for leave to return to home, but equally disinclined to let the man think he’d been forsaken by his last remaining family member, regardless how distant the two were from one another. Running a hand through his hair, d’Artagnan exhaled slowly and stood, his decision made, and he went to speak with the Captain.

 

“Come,” a voice called from within, and the Gascon pushed open the door to Treville’s office, presenting himself in front of his commander. “What is it, d’Artagnan?” the Captain asked, putting down the parchment he’d been reading.

 

“I need to go home, sir, to Gascony,” the young man began. “I have an uncle who’s written me for help. I honestly don’t know what exactly is going on, but he’s the only family I have left and I feel obligated to at least check on him. I’d like permission to take leave so I can make the trip.”

 

Treville eyed the young man in front of him carefully, noting the general air of weariness about the boy which seemed to have only grown worse in the months since the boy had received his commission. He found this concerning given that their missions hadn’t been overly taxing and thought it might be a good idea for the boy to take some time and travel home to see to his affairs. “Alright, you may have three weeks.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded gratefully; the generous amount of time Treville had offered would allow for the week’s trip that it would take to reach Gascony from Paris and provide a full week with his uncle to deal with whatever had the man concerned. “Thank you, sir.”

 

As he turned to leave, the Captain spoke again, “Perhaps the others could use some leave as well?”

 

The Gascon tried to control his grin, but knew he was failing, his face having brightened at the thought of having his three friends with him on the long journey, especially since he was unsure about what awaited him when he got home. “Yes, sir, I think they would welcome the opportunity, and I would be grateful for their company.”

 

The Captain gave a nod, trying to remain serious but his features softening in response the boy’s reaction, “Good, I’ll see you all back here in three weeks’ time. Safe journey.”

 

d’Artagnan felt lighter immediately, already looking forward to being able to spend the next three weeks with his friends, and confident that the four of them would be able to manage whatever troubled his uncle. It was still early in the day and he decided first to see if Athos was awake. Upon entering his mentor’s rooms, the Gascon got his first whiff of wine, which meant that despite the fact that he’d stayed in the previous night, he’d still drunk his fair share of alcohol. Groaning internally at the thought of dealing with a hung-over Athos, he pushed through the door to find the older man deeply asleep on his stomach, face pressed into his pillow as one arm hung down to brush the floor.

 

Sighing softly, d’Artagnan crossed the space between them and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, shaking gently to wake him. “Athos, wake up, I have news.” Athos groggily managed to prop one eye open, allowing it to slide closed again when he confirmed the identity of his visitor. “Come on, Athos, we need to get ready to leave Paris.”

 

That got the man’s attention, his soldiering instincts taking over as he pushed himself up on one arm and opened his eyes again. “We have a mission?” he asked, words still somewhat slurred, suggesting that he wasn’t fully sober yet.

 

“No, I’ve got something to take care of and the Captain suggested you come along,” d’Artagnan started to explain.

 

“So, no mission?” Athos interrupted.

 

“No,” the Gascon began.

 

“Then leave me alone. There’s still far too much wine in my veins and the sun is much too low in the sky for this conversation,” Athos allowed himself to fall back onto his mattress, closing his eyes in dismissal.

 

“But, Athos, I need your help,” the Gascon protested.

 

“Later, now get out and let me sleep,” Athos ordered, rolling over and turning his back to the young man. d’Artagnan stood there for several seconds, considering trying again to reason with his friend, but decided there was little point until he was more awake.

 

Sighing, he turned on his heel and left in search of Porthos instead. He’d checked with the guards on duty when leaving the garrison and they’d confirmed that the large man hadn’t returned during the night. For this reason, the Gascon headed for Porthos’ favorite tavern, guessing the man might still be engaged in a card game, especially if the stakes had been high. Sure enough, he spotted his friend sitting at a table near the back, playing against a sole opponent, likely the last man remaining after a full night of drinking and cards. d’Artagnan moved to stand next to this friend, glancing automatically at the cards he held and noting the likelihood of a winning hand. “Porthos, we need to go,” he said.

 

“Oi, not now runt, I’m in the middle of a game,” Porthos replied with a glint in his eye.

 

Huffing, d’Artagnan tried again, “Yes, now Porthos, we need to get packed and head out.”

 

Porthos spared a glance in the Gascon’s direction, face turning more serious as he asked, “A mission?”

 

The young man hesitated as he recalled Athos’ reaction, but decided he couldn’t lie to his friend, “No, not a mission, it’s something of a more personal nature and it’ll take us away from Paris for the next three weeks.”

 

“Three weeks?” Porthos began shaking his head, “That don’t really work for me. I’ve got a seat at another game in a few days that I can’t pass up.”

 

“But, Porthos, this is important,” d’Artagnan hated the pleading tone that colored his words, but couldn’t do anything to change it.

 

“Sorry, lad, but nothing’s more important than this game. Now run along, I’ll see you at the garrison later.” With those words Porthos turned his attention back to the game and effectively ignored the young man beside him.

 

Swallowing down his hurt feelings, d’Artagnan crossed to the door and exited onto the street, which was growing busier as the morning progressed. He leaned against the wall of the tavern, closing his eyes and throwing his head back in frustration at his friends’ reactions. His friends…the men that he would and _had_ done anything for, who had both just indicated that they had better things to do. Had he been wrong about the bonds between them? Giving his head a shake to draw himself away from his morose thoughts, he decided to go back to the garrison. Aramis seldom spent the night in his own bed so the Gascon had no idea where to find him, but he could at least head back and pack his things and then appeal to his friends once more when they arrived.

 

His heart lightened at seeing Aramis enter the garrison gates ahead of him and he quickened his steps as he called out, “Aramis!” The sharpshooter stopped and turned, an easy grin on his face at the sight of his friend, and d’Artagnan was encouraged by the reaction. “Aramis, I’m so glad to see you,” he said as he came abreast of the other man.

 

“d’Artagnan, you’re up early,” Aramis commented.

 

“I received some news from home this morning and I’ve already been to see Athos and Porthos,” the Gascon explained.

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed, not really paying attention to the young man’s words as he kept an eye on the gates behind the boy.

 

“We need to pack our things, enough for three weeks,” d’Artagnan started to explain.

 

“Three weeks,” Aramis looked at him in concern. “Did Treville give us a new mission?”

 

“No,” the young man replied slowly, drawing out the word. “But it is a matter of some urgency.”

 

“Nonsense,” Aramis clapped a hand on the Gascon’s shoulder, grinning broadly, “the only urgency for Musketeers is our duty to the King.”

 

“But, Aramis,” d’Artagnan tried again.

 

“Ah, there it is,” Aramis’ attention was once more on the gates where a splendid carriage had appeared. “I need to go take care of this. I’ll see you later.” Before the young man could say another word, the sharpshooter was moving toward the ornate carriage, pulling the door open and stepping inside.

 

d’Artagnan was left alone, shaking his head in disbelief. When the Captain had suggested that his friends accompany him back to Gascony, he’d been thrilled, but it seemed that it would not be. Each of the men had politely, but firmly dismissed him and continued on with their lives as if he was a minor annoyance. With a jolt, he realized it hurt, and despite the fact that he’d done everything in his power to be a good friend to the three, it seemed now that those feelings ran only one-way. Perhaps the inseparables were exactly that and he had not been part of their group as he’d thought. Instead, he’d been playing the role of tolerated outsider; the buffoon who was useful as long as nothing was asked for in return. Swallowing thickly he turned and walked in the direction of his room, not wanting anyone else to see the moisture that sat in his eyes at the thought that his feelings of friendship might not be shared and, most importantly, not returned. While he might be a Musketeer, he had not found the family he thought he had and it was that belief more than any other that had him packing his things and departing as quickly as possible. He could not bear the shame and continued pain of being with three men who cared more about what he was willing to do for them, than what he might ask for in return. As he rode out of Paris, tears once more clouding his vision and despair pooling in his belly, he couldn’t help but wonder at how easily he seemed to have been cast aside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does this mean that d’Artagnan came to us for help with something that was urgent, and would take us away from Paris for three weeks, and now he’s gone off by himself?” Aramis summarized. 
> 
> Exhaling, Athos added, “And we have no idea where he’s gone or why.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for such a wonderful response to this story - I'm truly overwhelmed and appreciate all the kudos and comments that were left on the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this next installment!

Athos’ head still throbbed dully and he couldn’t help but squint in the bright sunlight as he stood next to Porthos and Aramis during morning muster. Vaguely he wondered about their fourth, but the upset in his stomach had him breathing carefully lest he embarrass himself in front of the whole garrison by losing what little remained in his belly. When Treville passed by in front of them, he paused, pinning the three with an odd look and Athos did his best to look alert and aware despite how poorly he was feeling. Finally the Captain spoke, “I thought you three were going with d’Artagnan?”

 

They hadn’t yet spoken with each other that morning and even if they had, the information they shared between them gave little indication of what they were supposedly going to be doing. Deciding that ambiguity was the safest option, Porthos replied, “I have something in a couple days and the timing didn’t really work for me.”

 

Treville’s gaze shifted to Athos certain that, out of the three of them, his lieutenant would have wanted to be at the boy’s side. “I told him that we could discuss it later.”

 

The Captain’s face held a sour look but the questioning ended as he spoke with a resigned sigh, “Very well then. I have a missive that needs to go out today. You three can take it since you’re not doing anything else.”

 

The three men followed Treville up to his office, Athos leaning more heavily on the railing leading upstairs than he would have liked. They said little beyond gathering the details of their mission, each man eager to escape the strange looks that the Captain continued to throw their way. When they’d been dismissed and stood back in the garrison courtyard, Porthos looked to his friends, “Breakfast?”

 

Athos’ complexion seemed to acquire a greenish cast at the thought and Aramis hurriedly answered, “Let’s pack it instead and we can eat on the road. Meet at the stables in an hour?”

 

So agreed, the men moved in their separate directions to pack what they’d need for the 4 or 5 day trip they’d been sent on. An hour later found them ready and astride their horses, making their way out of Paris in the opposite direction their friend had travelled earlier that day. Remarkably, all three men were so wrapped up in their own thoughts that not a single one spared a moment to wonder what had brought d’Artagnan to them so early that morning or where he’d gone now. It would be a moment they would look back on and regret. 

* * *

d’Artagnan had hoped the time spent travelling would allow his hurt feelings to ease, the separation from his friends providing the distance needed to gain perspective and some much-needed objectivity. Sadly, that was not the case. The trip from Paris to Gascony was a relatively easy ride, but the distance was great and required the full week since he’d decided not to push himself, finding that he was reluctant to arrive back at the garrison any earlier than the three weeks he’d been given. As a result, he endured long days riding with nothing to occupy his thoughts other than the words of his friends, looping endlessly through his brain until he thought he might go mad. In the days since he’d left Paris he’d fluctuated between remorse for having thought badly about his friends, certain that if they’d heard him out fully, the three would now be at his side, and shame at having believed so gullibly that three soldiers with the history that these men shared could ever find a simple Gascon farm boy worthy of their time and friendship. He wavered between the two extremes so often that he could no longer be certain of anything, let alone that he’d correctly interpreted the words that had been spoken, leaving him wondering at his own role in his current predicament. As a result, he found himself incredibly relieved when he spotted his uncle’s modest farmhouse, set back away from the man’s pasture land and sheltered from the back by a grove of trees. It had been many years since he’d last visited his uncle and his heart clenched at the memory of visiting the man with his father present, just a few scant months after his mother’s death. They had only spent a night in the man’s company, and d’Artagnan realized with a pang that he barely knew the man he was about to visit.

 

Slowing his horse to a halt the Gascon took a deep breath as he dismounted and made his way to the front door of his uncle’s house. It was early evening and the fields he’d ridden through were empty, so d’Artagnan expected the man to be at home and it was with no little amount of nervousness that he knocked on the door. He could hear movement from within and seconds later the door was opened a crack, a weathered face suspiciously staring out at him. Realizing that the man would likely not recognize him now in the ten-year old boy he’d last seen, d’Artagnan introduced himself. “It’s Charles d’Artagnan, your nephew. You wrote for my help.” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

 

The opening widened as recognition dawned, “Charles?” He stared openly and d’Artagnan did his best to stand still, pretending that the man’s attention wasn’t making him incredibly uncomfortable. Finally, the man seemed to have gotten his fill of the Musketeer’s visage and he spoke again. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said softly, causing the young man to dip his head. He seemed to visibly shake himself out of his reverie and offered a small smile, “You must forgive an old man his sentiment. It’s good to see you again and thank you for coming. Please,” he opened the door wide, “come in.”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head as he entered the house, taking only a couple steps inside so he stood inside the doorway, just far enough for his uncle to close the door behind him. Taking a couple steps back, his uncle took a proper look at his nephew, noting with some sadness the similarities between this young man and his beloved wife’s sister. Motioning with a hand to the table and chairs, the man led the way over and sat down, d’Artagnan sitting across from him. “Have you been well?” the old man asked, uncertain of where to begin and having little knowledge of the young man upon which to strike up a conversation.

 

The Gascon felt the awkwardness as well but was committed to helping this man to the best of his ability, so drawing a steadying breath he replied, “I’m well, thank you. My position with the Musketeers provides me with everything I need.”

 

The old man’s eyes lit up at the comment and he offered another tentative smile, “Your parents would have been so proud at what you’ve accomplished.”

 

The comment brought an answering grin to d’Artagnan’s face and he could feel himself flush with pride at the acknowledgement of his achievement. “And you, are you well?” the young man asked.

 

The man’s smile slipped a little and d’Artagnan wondered if he’d said something wrong, but the other man recovered quickly, “You must be hungry and tired after riding all day. I’ll make us something to eat and then we can talk. Why don’t you go take care of your horse while I get things ready in here?”

 

With that, his uncle stood and left for a back room, no doubt where the kitchen was located. d’Artagnan did as the man had suggested, moving outside to untack and feed and water his horse, finding a well-stocked if simple barn with several stalls. As he finished wiping the horse down, he tipped his head forward leaning it on his horse’s flank, again keenly missing the steadiness he’d enjoyed in the presence of his friends. “What have I gotten myself into?” he asked himself, before turning back to the small house and walking inside. 

* * *

It took a couple hours of riding before Athos began to feel halfway human and stopped believing that his head would soon fall from his shoulders. Hang-overs were nothing new, but even he would admit that last night’s indulgence was unusually excessive, leaving his head and his belly in a most fragile state. He’d been grateful that this two companions had ridden behind him, allowing him to nurse his hang-over in peace while the other two spoke in hushed tones, several feet away. Now that he was starting to feel better, he slowed his horse’s stride, allowing the two men to pull abreast of him. It was a testament to the men’s familiarity with each other that they took the action as the invitation it was intended, bringing him into the conversation as soon as they were together.

 

“Feeling better, I see,” Aramis commented, a fond expression on his face softening his words. Athos ducked his head minutely in acknowledgement.  “You’re not usually so affected.” Aramis remarked.

 

“I was perhaps a bit enthusiastic last night,” Athos allowed, “a decision that I’m deeply regretting today.”

 

Porthos snorted in amusement at the man’s understatement. “Anythin’ you want to share?”

 

Athos shook his head, “I have no excuse, it was just not one of my better nights.”

 

The two nodded knowingly, understanding well the times when a soldier’s past caught up with them, inexplicably stirring up memories that would momentarily bring a man to his knees. Switching topics, Aramis asked, “Do either of you know what d’Artagnan was planning?”

 

The two shook their head, both now trying to recall what the young man had told them. “He said something about being away from Paris, but it wasn’t a mission,” Porthos offered.

 

Aramis frowned, “That’s what he said to me as well, something of urgency that would take us away from Paris for three weeks.”

 

“Three weeks?” Athos repeated. “He didn’t mention that to me.”

 

“What did he say exactly?” Aramis prompted.

 

Athos fell quiet for several moments, doing his best to recall his protégé’s earlier words. As he thought, Porthos interjected, “He said it was something personal, not Musketeer business.”

 

“Something personal; like what?” Aramis questioned.

 

Porthos only shrugged as he admitted somewhat sheepishly, “Dunno, I was in the middle of a card game so I wasn’t payin’ much attention.”

 

The two turned their attention back to the older man who’d thus far contributed very little to their conversation. When he noticed they were waiting for him, Athos confessed, “I believe he may have said he needed help.”

 

"Needed help with what?" Porthos queried, a concerned look now painting his features. A glance at Aramis showed the man knew nothing more than they had just shared between themselves.

 

“Does this mean that d’Artagnan came to us for help with something that was urgent, and would take us away from Paris for three weeks, and now he’s gone off by himself?” Aramis summarized.

 

Exhaling, Athos added, “And we have no idea where he’s gone or why.”

 

Porthos allowed a huff of frustration to escape him while Aramis hung his head for a moment, but it was Athos’ quiet stare that unnerved them the most. “We’ve let ‘im down,” Porthos stated dejectedly, the guilt he felt clear in the set of his shoulders.

 

“Why didn’t he explain what he needed?” Aramis wondered aloud, troubled now that the young man might be in danger and alone.

 

“I told him to get out,” Athos admitted softly. “It was still early and I was… _not at my best_ ”

 

Porthos snorted again at the man’s comment knowing that Athos and mornings were typically at odds, but while hung-over, the older man would be downright surly. “So what do we do now?” he questioned.

 

Both men looked hopefully at Athos, who sat stoically in his saddle, “We have a mission to complete. There’s nothing to be done until we have executed our orders and returned to the garrison.”

 

“Treville,” Aramis moaned. “He knows something.”

 

“That’s why he kept givin’ us those looks,” Porthos declared.

 

Athos gave a short nod, “I suggest we make haste and return as quickly as possible so that we’re not too far behind our young friend and whatever trouble he’s found.” 

* * *

The meal they’d enjoyed had been simple but hearty, d’Artagnan recognizing the subtle flavours as the same ones he remembered from his mother’s dishes. The two had found common ground in their knowledge of farming and the time while they ate passed comfortably if still not particularly enjoyably for the young man. When they’d finished, the older man cleared the dishes, intending to wash them, but d’Artagnan followed him into the kitchen and placed a hand on his arm. “Uncle,” he said, the older man slipping from his grasp and continuing to clean and organize the small space. “Jacques,” he tried again, hoping that by using his uncle’s first name, the other man might pay more attention.

 

Jacques dipped his head for a moment, sighing deeply before seemingly resigning himself to the fact that they could put their conversation off no longer. Offering a small nod, he replied, “Go have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.”

 

When Jacques reappeared he carried a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other, which he rapidly filled, taking a deep swallow from his own before seating himself. d’Artagnan watched the man’s actions carefully, deciding to only sip from his glass when he discovered the strength of the brandy it held. Steeling himself, his uncle met the Gascon’s gaze, “I really am grateful that you’ve come. Things have been difficult and I was hoping you might be able to help.” d’Artagnan sat quietly, waiting as several seconds passed before the man continued.

 

“Did you know that the local Baron passed away several months ago?” Jacques asked, his eyes taking on a somewhat vacant look as he recalled something that d’Artagnan was not privy to. Giving a quick shake of his head, the Musketeer indicated that he had not known of the noble’s passing. “His son, Gerard, inherited the title. I believe he fancies himself something of a soldier and disagrees with the King’s views on taxes.” Jacques raised his glass to his lips and d’Artagnan noted the minute tremble in the man’s hand as he drank. “He has gathered quite a sizable number of men and has been terrorizing everyone living in the area, exacting far more from people than they can truly afford.” He refilled his glass, offering more to d’Artagnan as well, who declined with another shake of his head. Jacques lowered sad eyes to examine the deep, honey-colored liquid in his glass as he continued. “I had hoped that you might be accompanied by some of your fellow Musketeers.”

 

Silence fell between the two men as realization dawned; Jacques had intended to ask the Musketeers to deal with Gerard, but instead of arriving with his brothers as he’d planned, d’Artagnan was alone. Taking a steadying breath, the Gascon assured, “I can still go speak with him, uncle, use my position as a Musketeer to make him stop.”

 

The statement seemed to panic the older man as he looked up sharply, “No, he’s much too dangerous. They used to be satisfied with destroying property and the odd beating, but last week they killed a man.”

 

d’Artagnan’s ire rose at the injustice of the situation, the volume of his voice rising to match, “Then he must be held accountable.”

 

“Charles, you are only one man; surely you cannot presume to accomplish anything in the face of such overwhelming odds?” Jacques pleaded.

 

Although it was not meant as such, d’Artagnan bristled at the suggestion that he was not up to the task, needing instead the might of additional Musketeers to deal with the new Baron. Standing stiffly from his chair, he drained his glass and placed in onto the table, “I’ll speak with him first thing in the morning. Now, I’m tired and would like to go rest.”

 

Jacques nodded numbly, pointing in the direction of the kitchen, “There’s a small room through there where you can sleep.”

 

Giving a nod of thanks, the young man left his uncle’s company, the older man taking a deep swallow of the fiery brandy. “Françoise,” he implored his dead wife, “what have I done?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping back, the Baron spoke again, “I’ll be back later, once you’ve had a chance to get properly acquainted with the pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting and leaving kudos - it's been wonderful to hear your thoughts so far. Many of you have predicted that d'Artagnan plus the Baron equals trouble - based on this next chapter, I'd have to agree. Enjoy!

Despite his declaration that he wanted to sleep, d’Artagnan managed little rest that night. His mind was busy examining the information his uncle had shared, which invariably brought him back to his last conversations with his so-called friends, reigniting the frustration he felt at how things had been left and the possibility that he’d been ignorant and naïve about how things really stood between them. When his thoughts turned to the possibility that he’d misinterpreted things between himself and his friends, his anger swiftly turned to guilt for thinking poorly of such fine and honorable men, and condemnation at himself since the fault must lie with him rather than with the others. The result was a night marked by tossing and turning in between short periods when his body fell into restless dozing before being startled awake once more. When dawn finally broke, d’Artagnan was relieved to have a reason to be awake rather than staying in bed, alone with his thoughts, for a moment further.

 

Jacques, it seemed, was also an early riser and was already sitting at the table with food laid out for his guest. The older man’s gaze took in his nephew’s appearance, noting the general air of weariness that seemed to hang off him. “Good morning, Charles. How did you sleep?”

 

If d’Artagnan was bothered by the question, he gave no indication, plastering a polite smile on his face as he replied, “Well, thank you.” He took the same seat he’d had the previous night and added a small portion of food to his plate, not feeling overly hungry but recognizing the need to fuel his body before speaking with the Baron. “And you?” he asked.

 

The older man huffed with a smile, “As well as can be expected at my age.” The Gascon merely nodded as he began to eat and Jacques’ face turned serious as he asked, “Is there any way I can dissuade you from speaking to Gerard?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head as he swallowed, “Family or not, this is a matter for the Musketeers so I will talk with him in that capacity.”

 

Jacques looked intensely uncomfortable at his nephew’s response and he took several moments before speaking again. “If anything were to happen to you…” he trailed off, not wanting to put voice to his worries.  

 

The Gascon looked up sharply at his uncle’s comment, noticing for the first time the deep lines of worry on the man’s face. Softening his tone, he replied, “If I don’t return by nightfall, send a message to Captain Treville at the Musketeer garrison in Paris. He’ll know what to do.” His uncle didn’t seem overly satisfied with the answer and d’Artagnan continued, “I’ll be fine, uncle. I’m trained for this sort of thing and the Baron will probably back down once he’s been confronted.”

 

The older man gave a shaky nod, which did nothing to inspire confidence in the younger man, but he accepted that this would likely be as much support as he’d receive for his plans to deal with Gerard. Finishing his meal quickly, d’Artagnan stood, intending to go saddle his horse and be on his way. He paused as he heard his uncle’s voice again, “Be careful, Charles. Gerard cannot be trusted.” The warning was spoken softly but the concern in his uncle’s voice was clear.

 

Giving a smile of reassurance, the Gascon exited and made his way to the stables, dealing with his horse’s tack with well-practiced ease before doing a last check of his weapons. As he rode away from the farmhouse, he caught a glimpse of his uncle’s anxious face in the window and offered a quick wave.

 

The Baron’s house was an easy hour’s ride away and the impressive building stood well back from the other structures, which included stables and a shed of some sort. Not wanting to alarm the home’s occupants, d’Artagnan ensured his Musketeer pauldron was easily visible as he slowed his horse to a walk while he approached.  

 

While he was still a hundred feet away from the house, he spotted men positioned at the gate that allowed entrance into the home’s courtyard, and he carefully kept a neutral expression on his face as he noted the weapons they carried; clearly these were no ordinary labourers hired to work the Baron’s lands. As he neared, one of the guards stepped forward into his path, “Halt and identify yourself.”

 

The Gascon pulled his horse to a stop as he answered, “I am d’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers and I have business with the Baron.”

 

The two men at the gate traded looks, the one who had addressed the Musketeer nodding and motioning with an arm to move forward, while the other man disappeared into the courtyard, presumably to inform the Baron of his guest. As he followed the first man through the gates, he looked around as unobtrusively as he could, taking note of the additional armed men who seemed to be scattered haphazardly around the courtyard - unless one was schooled in strategy, in which case one would recognize the deliberate location of each man he spotted. The realization of so many, who had the air of trained soldiers about them, sent a shiver of unease up d’Artagnan’s spine which he fought to conceal. 

 

As they neared the house, the man leading him stopped, placing a hand on his horse’s head, clearly intending to take d’Artagnan’s reins from his hands. The Gascon slipped expertly out of the saddle and placed the animal’s leads in the other man’s waiting hands. The guard motioned with his head to the front of the house where d’Artagnan could see another man waiting for him. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, the young man strode confidently up the steps to the front door and followed his new guide inside. More men stood inside the doors and d’Artagnan schooled his features, allowing none of his apprehension to show even though he was beginning to believe that perhaps his uncle had been correct in his assessment of the Baron’s activities. He was ushered into a comfortable and well-appointed sitting room where a young man stood looking out the window, his back to d’Artagnan.

 

His guide turned on his heel and left, d’Artagnan momentarily at a loss as he was left alone with the other man, who still had not given any indication that he was aware of the Musketeer’s presence. The Gascon cleared his throat, preparing to speak, but the other man beat him to it. Still facing the window, he said, “I understand you’re a Musketeer.”

 

Straightening his shoulders and placing his hands on his belt, d’Artagnan replied, “That’s right.”

 

The other man sipped from the glass of wine he held in one hand, “You’re a long way from Paris, Musketeer.” Although the tone remained neutral, d’Artagnan could have sworn he heard contempt in the other man’s voice.

 

“Nothing is too far away for the King’s attention,” the Gascon replied, still letting the other man take the lead in their conversation.

 

He heard a small chuckle from the Baron as he agreed, “No, I suppose not.” Finally turning to face his visitor, d’Artagnan got his first look at the noble. The man was still young, although likely a few years older than himself, and his features, although schooled into a smile, held little mirth and possessed a decidedly hard edge. He could see now why his uncle had said the man had a taste for soldiering and predicted that under the man’s fine leather doublet lay hard muscle, the man’s stature and broad shoulders suggesting a strength similar to Porthos’. “So what is it that has brought you to our unimportant little corner of France?”

 

“His Majesty received reports of bandits in the area and he takes these complaints very seriously,” d’Artagnan advised, putting as much authority as he could muster into his tone.

 

If anything, the Baron seemed amused, a smile playing on his face, even though the Gascon could see that the feeling did not reach his eyes, “And they sent one man to deal with these supposed bandits?” Again, the man’s voice was polite but d’Artagnan picked up on the disdain underlying his words.

 

Plastering a large smile on his face, the Gascon replied, “Well you know what they say about Musketeers, one man is usually all that’s needed.”  

 

The Baron let out a short guffaw before drinking another swallow of wine. “And what would happen if one man were _not_ enough?” he asked, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass.

 

Infusing steel into his voice, d’Artagnan replied, “Then the task would fall to my brothers.” He paused momentarily for effect as his tone shifted to one of disbelief, “Surely you don’t think that we’re ever despatched alone?” It was a dangerous bluff, but the Gascon needed the other man to believe that there would be others coming, lest he think that the situation could be remedied with the disposal of the sole Musketeer.

 

Nearly a half minute passed in silence, d’Artagnan doing his best to ignore the sweat that now beaded at his hairline as he waited to see if his deceit would be accepted. Finally, the Baron seemed to relax. “I feel safer already,” he declared, toasting the other man with his glass. “When will the other Musketeers arrive?” he asked.

 

Bolstered by his apparent success, d’Artagnan stated, “There won’t be a need for them to come if I am assured that the activities of these bandits will cease….immediately.”

 

The Baron’s eyes narrowed but his façade of politeness held firm. “As the Baron overseeing these lands, I can promise that the bandits have stolen their last sous.”

 

Allowing a slow sigh of relief to escape, d’Artagnan nodded, “Then I will ride out to meet my brothers tomorrow and inform them that we may return to Paris.” Beginning to turn, the Gascon paused and looked back at the Baron once more, “Of course, if the bandits return, we would have no choice but to deal with them with extreme force, the survivors returning to Paris to hang. It is a most _disagreeable_ way to die,” he stated, giving a mock shudder at the thought.

 

The Baron's smile slipped for a moment, before he replied, “I can assure you that there is no need for further concern.” Striding forward, the man motioned toward the door leading out of the sitting room, “Come, I will escort you out.”

 

Falling into step behind the man, d’Artagnan’s troubled mind eased as he felt the euphoria of having succeeded in his task. At the doorway, the Baron stopped and the Gascon did the same, intending to say his farewells. He only had a moment to note the look of hatred on the Baron’s face before something hard crashed into the back of his head, sending the Gascon to the floor. He lay there fighting the blackness that seemed to be pulling at him only long enough to hear the spiteful words thrown in his direction and to feel the kicks that punctuated each word, connecting with his ribs and taking his breath away. “Filthy, interfering Musketeers!” As his muddled mind processed those words, his grasp on consciousness slipped away and he was aware of nothing else.

* * *

The fire in his shoulders competed with the desperate pounding of his head, and his attempt to draw a deep breathe was aborted as his ribs joined in the cacophony of pain that seemed to encompass his entire upper half. As the agony flared, blackness overcame him once more and before he could even out his ragged breathing, he was unconscious again.

 

When he next climbed his way to awareness, the pain in his shoulders still burned with an intensity that had the Gascon biting his lip in pain. This time he was aware enough to remember that breathing deeply was a mistake and he kept his inhales and exhales shallow and slow, extending his senses in an effort to understand what had happened. He pushed past the fierce ache in his shoulders and catalogued the intense throbbing in his skull, keeping his eyes closed until he was able to gain better control over the pain. The tightness in his chest reminded him of the time he’d fallen off his horse and damaged his ribs, and a tentative deeper inhale had him gasping weakly at the onslaught of pain the action caused.

 

Finally opening his eyes, d’Artagnan was confused by what he saw, his jumbled brain needing several moments to recognize the blurry, hay-covered ground that lay in front of him. Blinking several times, he realized that his head hung uncomfortably from his neck, and his gaze shifted to his knees upon which he knelt. With effort, he raised his head, startled to find how difficult the task was to accomplish and how painful it was to hold up, allowing it to drop again seconds later. The action had pulled on his already aching shoulders and brought with it the realization that his arms were pulled painfully behind him, attached to something that sat higher than his shoulders and forcing him into an uncomfortably crouched position over his knees. While it placed the least amount of pressure on his shoulders, the need to kneel nearly folded in half kept his breathing shallow due to the increased pressure on his sore ribcage.

 

Steeling himself, d’Artagnan raised his head again, doing his best to look around for any clues to his whereabouts; the site that greeted him did not instill any confidence. The space was gray, the darkness illuminated by two torches placed high up on the walls. He was surrounded by three walls, made of roughly hewn stones, the fourth side of his space covered in floor to ceiling bars. There was no window, and that, along with the chilly dampness, led the young man to speculate that he was belowground. A shiver racked his frame and his was confused to find that he seemed to be feeling the coolness more keenly than normal; a few seconds reflection revealed that he’d been stripped of his boots and doublet and his heart sank at the realization that he’d likely grow colder still.

 

In one corner of his prison he spotted a bucket, leading him to believe that they intended to keep him alive at least for a while, otherwise why provide a receptacle for his bodily needs. As he allowed his head to drop, closing his eyes against the pain that wracked his body, he prayed that his captors would return soon so he might have some opportunity to negotiate his release.

 

He had no idea how much time had passed, his head wound and the constant aches making it difficult to remain aware, and the barred door opening startled him, jarring his injuries and drawing an unchecked moan of pain from him before he could stop it. Taking a couple of shaky breaths, he forced his head up, determined to look his captor in the eye no matter his position. The Baron stood in front of him, his expression harsh in the low light that was given off by the torches. The noble stared silently at the Musketeer before him, waiting until the young man could no longer stand the awkward position, allowing his head to drop.

 

“Given all of your bluster, I can’t say I’m particularly impressed, Musketeer,” the Baron drawled, scorn dripping from each word. “Either your reputation has been vastly exaggerated or you are the runt of the litter - a boy sent to do a man’s job.”

 

d’Artagnan bit the inside of his cheek, refusing to allow himself to be baited. The Baron began to slowly pace in front of the bound man, taking slow, measured steps as he spoke, “One thing I believe to be true is that the Musketeers would not send you here alone, so I need to know how many others to expect. If you tell me now, I will end your suffering quickly.”

 

The Gascon kept his head down and remained silent, confident that his only protection lay in holding on to the information the man wanted. As it was, the story he’d told earlier had been nothing but a bluff, and when the Baron realized that no one else was coming, d’Artagnan’s life would be forfeit. His only chance for now was to continue in his charade, pretending to hold out in his unwillingness to risk his brothers, and hope that some form of rescue or escape opportunity presented itself. Lifting his head, d’Artagnan pinned the noble with a hateful gaze, “I will not tell you anything.”

 

The Baron merely smiled as he took two swift steps forward, causing d’Artagnan to jerk in an effort to move away from the man, but unable to do so because of the position in which he was bound. Grasping the Musketeers hair, Gerard forced the man’s head up higher than was comfortable, and d’Artagnan panted shallowly through the pain as he did his best to glare at the other man. Leaning down until his face was mere inches away from the young man’s, the Baron hissed, “You will tell me everything I want to know. No man has ever withstood my methods, certainly not a simple boy such as yourself. The only question you need to ask yourself is how long you wish to suffer before you break.” With a jerk, the man released d’Artagnan’s hair and he gratefully dropped his head once more in an effort to relieve the fire in his overstretched shoulders.

 

Stepping back, the Baron spoke again, “I’ll be back later, once you’ve had a chance to get properly acquainted with the pain.” With that, d’Artagnan could hear the man’s footfalls as he left, the door to the cell creaking closed behind him. The Gascon drew as deep a breath as he could manage, cursing the circumstances that had brought him to this place alone and wishing dearly for the brothers who had stood with him in the past.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Putting the glass down, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, stiff from the hours of sitting and tired from the lack of rest he’d experienced; but, he promised himself, they would all sleep well that night with their youngest brother returned to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to be humbled and amazed at the interest in this story and am grateful to everyone who's commented and left kudos. Our three inseparables are back in this next chapter - enjoy!

The three inseparables had completed their mission in four days, returning to dismount and hastily hand their horses’ leads to the stable boy before bounding up the stairs to Treville’s office. While the mission itself had been uneventful, the men had found themselves increasingly morose and short-tempered with each other, a sign of the deep worry and guilt that plagued them after realizing that d’Artagnan had gone off on his own; worse yet, they had been the reason for his solitary journey. As each hour had passed, the three men’s minds conjured up numerous scenarios that had the Gascon facing various forms of trouble, their fertile imaginations practically running rampant to fill the enormous gaps in their knowledge of what had transpired. In the four days since they’d parted ways, d’Artagnan could be almost anywhere and their speculation had moved quickly from the probable, to the plausible, ending with the downright unlikely, and still they wondered. In truth, the lack of information was driving them nearly mad and had resulted in an unspoken pact that had their days starting early and ending late so they might return to Paris in the shortest amount of time possible.

 

Athos gave a perfunctory knock on Treville’s door before pushing it open and striding inside, Aramis and Porthos quick on his heels. The Captain startled at their abrupt entrance, knowing that even these three typically displayed more manners than he was seeing now. “Welcome back,” he said, leaving it in the other men’s hands to explain what was going on.

 

Athos gave a short nod before offering a concise report that basically explained that their mission was successful before moving on to what he really wanted to know. “Where has d’Artagnan gone?”

 

Treville examined the men in front of him carefully, taking note of the stiffness in Athos’ posture, the lines of worry on Porthos’ face and the way in which Aramis twisted his hat in his hands. “He didn’t tell you?” Porthos looked sheepish at the question and Aramis averted his gaze, but it was the look of anguish on Athos’ face that was most telling. “What happened?” the Captain ordered.

 

“I fear that none of us did d’Artagnan the courtesy of allowing him to fully explain and now we find ourselves at a loss regarding his whereabouts,” Aramis explained.

 

“I see,” Treville steepled his fingers as he leaned his elbows on his desk. His gaze was stern as he shifted from one man to the next, bothered that three of his finest men had not heard the Gascon’s request, let alone accompanied him.

 

“Captain, I would consider it a particular kindness if you would share with us what you know of d’Artagnan’s situation. Our time away has been somewhat stressful as a result of our ignorance,” Athos pleaded, the earnestness in his voice underpinned by the clear desperation he was feeling.

 

Treville’s face softened as he recognized the honest mistake the men had made and the sincerity of their intention to rectify it. “He received a letter from an uncle in Gascony and requested leave to travel home and offer assistance.” The three Musketeers traded silent looks, all of them wondering at the fact that the boy had gone to Gascony. “It was my idea to suggest that you three might want to accompany him, given how close you all seem to the boy.”

 

Athos flinched at Treville’s words and Porthos allowed a low growl to escape, once more disgusted at his own part in the current situation. “With your permission, Captain, we’ll be riding to Gascony with all possible haste,” Athos stated, his nerves tightly strung at the idea that his protégé was more than half-way to his destination, while they were just preparing to start the long trip.

 

“Granted,” Treville acquiesced, noting that he would also feel better if the three reunited with the young man. As the men turned to leave, he called out to them once more, “Athos, have you noticed how worn d’Artagnan has appeared lately? I don’t suppose you have any idea how that might have happened?” While Treville spent a good deal of time embroiled in Court affairs, he had a keen eye and little that happened at the garrison escaped him. As such, he’d been aware for some time of the somewhat imbalanced relationship between the four men, but had refrained from saying anything since d’Artagnan seemed to genuinely enjoy helping his friends and the others had not shown any malice in their actions toward the younger man.

 

Athos gave another tilt of his head, “I believe I may have some idea. Be assured it will be resolved.”

 

Treville nodded and the three men departed, their footfalls landing heavily on the stairs outside as they descended into the courtyard. The Captain let out a slow sigh, his intuition telling him that something was about to happen, just as it always seemed to when these four were involved. Frustratingly, he could not for the life of him figure out what, and resigned himself to having to wait until the men’s return.

* * *

The three had divided in order to prepare for their journey as quickly as possible, Porthos collecting provisions from the kitchen while Aramis augmented his medical supplies with a selection of herbs and clean bandages, then the two men together saddling fresh horses for the ride. In the meantime, Athos had visited all of their rooms and collected clean clothes for each of them as well as several bottles of wine from his own stockpile. Within the hour they were riding out through the garrison gates; even though they would not get far tonight, they were too restless to stay in Paris while knowing that their young friend already had a significant head start. The week-long journey to Gascony was completed in five and a half days and an inquiry at a local tavern had them dismounting at the same small farmhouse that d’Artagnan had arrived at just three days prior.

 

“Sure this is place?” Porthos asked as he looked around, not seeing any signs of life despite the fact that the fields they’d crossed looked well-tended.

 

Athos merely shrugged as he walked to the door, rapping sharply. The door was opened a crack and Athos did his best to peer through and identify the man standing inside, but was unable to see anything more than a glimpse of one eye and a shock of gray hair. Removing his hat, he introduced himself, “Monsieur, I am Athos of the King’s Musketeers. We seek another of our brothers, your nephew I believe. Is he here?”

 

The man on the other side of the door was quiet for several moments before widening the crack just slightly. “How do I know you’re really Musketeers?”

 

Athos turned and exchanged a curious look with his two friends, before shifting his body so that the pauldron on his right shoulder was clearly visible. A relieved sigh came from inside the house as the door opened widely. “Come in, quickly, before anyone sees you.”

 

Another round of glances was exchanged but all three men entered, their host shutting the door behind them as soon as they were inside. “Monsieur, are you d’Artagnan’s uncle?”

 

A look of confusion passed over the old man’s face, before it was replaced with a slight small, “Ah, you mean Charles. Yes, he’s my nephew.”

 

Athos dipped his head, “And where is Charles now? May we speak with him?” He looked around the room, not seeing any signs of the young man.

 

“Please, I forget my manners, come sit down,” the man motioned to the table and chairs. Athos raised an eyebrow but got the sense that they should do as the man asked. The other two followed his lead and took seats as well, while their host disappeared, returning moments later with a bottle of dark liquid and four glasses. Seating himself and then filling each man’s glass, Jacques raised his own in a silent toast before downing half of its contents.

 

“Monsieur,” Athos began.

 

“Jacques; no need for such formality,” the old man corrected him.

 

“Jacques, where is d’Artagnan?” Athos pressed.

 

“Are you his brothers-in-arms?” the old man asked, looking with open curiosity at the men seated around the table.

 

“We are his brothers in every way, Monsieur,” Aramis replied graciously.

 

Jacques’ head dropped and he stared intently at the brandy in his glass, the other three wondering at the strange behaviours they’d so far observed, but willing to wait a while longer before pressing the issue. After nearly a minute, the old man drained his glass and refilled it before looking back at them with pain-filled eyes. “Charles’ mother was my wife’s sister. I was never close to the boy because his father and I didn’t get along, but I never had children and he’s the only family I have left.” He paused to take another sip of the strong alcohol. “I had heard about his commission to the Musketeers. You don’t know how proud his mother would have been.” A wistful look crossed the man’s face as he spoke.

 

“Be assured we understand the pride attached to his accomplishments and can well imagine how his mother would have felt, had she lived to see him commissioned,” Athos stated.

 

Jacques startled at the comment, but a closer look at the men sitting across from his confirmed the truth of the Musketeer’s statement and proved that their earlier words about being brothers had not been made simply as polite conversation. “I’m sorry,” Jacques breathed out, despondently. “I had hoped he would bring others with him to deal with the new Baron who has been terrorizing those living in the area. I didn’t want to tell him the reason for my letter when he came alone, but he is a stubborn boy.” The answering looks on the Musketeers’ faces indicated their agreement with the old man’s assessment. “When I told him what was happening, he insisted on speaking with the Baron.”

 

Porthos leaned forward in his seat as Jacques fell silent, unable to contain himself any longer, “And, what happened?”

 

Drawing a shaky breath, Jacques finished, “That was three days ago. I haven’t seen him since he left that morning.”

 

Porthos’ fist clenched where it sat on the table next to his glass, their fears about d’Artagnan’s safety being realized in the old man’s words. Aramis recovered first and he prompted the old man for more information, “Have you any news of him since he left?”

 

Jacques shook his head, the dismay apparent on his face. “We will need directions to the Baron’s house and as much information about him as you’re able to share,” Athos declared, his intention to look for his protégé clear.

 

The old man nodded and began explaining everything he knew about the Baron, which was sadly little, but at least gave the three men an idea of the odds they would be facing the following day. Athos also extracted a promise from the man to send word back to the garrison, just in case the letter that Jacques had sent after d’Artagnan had gone missing didn’t arrive or garner the necessary support. The sun had set when they’d finished speaking and Jacques offered them blankets and space in the stables where they could sleep. Tired as they were from the trip, the men agreed and bedded down for the night, sleep sadly slow in coming as the men’s minds were full of their younger brother’s condition, wondering if he was alright and promising retribution to any man who dared harm him.

* * *

“It’s time,” the words were harshly spoken and accompanied by a booted foot to his already injured side, pulling a moan of displeasure from the young man as he was rolled to his back. Before he could get his wits about him, both arms were grasped and he was roughly pulled back toward the wall where he would be bound, once more forced to endure the agonizing position that had tormented him for the last three days, finding relief only in the one hour he was allowed each day to move freely in order to eat and drink the scant meals he’d been provided and to take care of his bodily needs. The first time he’d been released, the return of blood to his long-restricted limbs had brought tears to his eyes, the sensation of pins and needles a sweet agony as feeling had returned. After he’d consumed what little had been provided, he rested with his back against one wall, relishing the feeling of being able to rest his shoulders and stretch out his legs. When the men had returned to restrain him again, he’d attacked, head butting one of the men and throwing a wild punch at the other. But his hours of captivity hampered his ability to fight, making his arms weak and leaving his chest vulnerable to attack, and he fell quickly when the second man recovered easily from his sloppy punch, returning one of his own that had a rib snapping painfully. He’d not made it easy for the two, struggling as much as his weakened state allowed, but in the end they’d triumphed and d’Artagnan once more found himself folded over his knees, arms pulled painfully above and behind him.

 

The second time he’d been released, it had taken longer for him to recover, laying limply where he’d been dropped and only managing to eat and drink a portion of what had been left. His arms were nearly useless as each movement stressed already damaged muscles, and he laid his hands limply in his lap, satisfied to simply allow the blood flow to be restored before he was shackled once more. If he could have managed it, he would have wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to maintain what meagre body heat remained in the cool, damp space, but the movement was completely beyond him. When his captors had returned, he’d made a half-hearted attempt at escape, but he’d managed no more than two steps toward the exit before another merciless punch connected with his battered ribs, dropping him quickly to the ground before he was dragged back to the wall.

 

This time he lay on the floor of the dirty cell, no longer caring about the filth that surrounded him, simply grateful for the hour reprieve away from his bonds, the only signs of life the sounds of his harsh breathing and the shivers that racked his slight frame. He’d managed to drink all of the water they’d left, but hadn’t touched the food, the pain of his injuries making his stomach roil uncomfortably. Several times each day, the Baron would return to ask his questions and each time d’Artagnan would stubbornly refuse to answer. He’d taunted the man initially, thinking he could goad the minor noble into making a mistake, but Gerard had ice water running through his veins and remained patient and calm, clearly recognizing that his was the stronger hand. d’Artagnan shuddered at the thought that he’d be once more forced into the tortuous position, recognizing that most men would have broken by now. But that was the irony of his situation; despite the Baron’s desire to find out when and how many Musketeers would arrive, d’Artagnan had no information to give him. His story had been a bluff and the Baron, once convinced of its accuracy, would be unlikely to believe the Gascon if he confessed his deceit, leaving him with no way to alleviate his suffering. Of course, after keeping him in the dank cell for three days, it was likely that the man would give up soon, and d’Artagnan anticipated perhaps another day or two before he was finally killed.

 

The thought of dying had scared him once, each close call he’d experienced in the fulfillment of his duties sending a heady jolt of adrenaline through his body as he did everything he could to survive. Now, he almost welcomed it, looking forward to the final and complete relief that death would provide. His only regret revolved around his brothers. He would never have the chance to clear the air between them, to apologize for thinking poorly of them or to learn the truth of their feelings for him. Perhaps it would be kinder this way, he thought, allowing himself to believe that his friends still cared for him, rather than succumbing to his more recent feelings of loss and betrayal.

 

When the door creaked open it was too soon and d’Artagnan couldn’t help the groan he emitted at the thought of being shackled again. The men didn’t even bother ordering him to stand anymore, knowing that he’d lost that ability somewhere between the last day and the current one. Instead, they dragged him up by his arms, pulling more sounds of pain from him as he was man-handled onto his knees, his arms pulled roughly behind him and then upwards. The final motion of positioning his arms pulled a cry of pain from d’Artagnan’s chest as his abused right shoulder came free from its socket, adding to his misery in an unexpected way, having come to the conclusion earlier that nothing could be worse than what he’d already endured. He was wrong. The fire that burned in his shoulder was keen and unrelenting, a cruel counterpoint to the chill the permeated the rest of his body, preventing him from escaping into sleep while his body was so racked with pain. Each breath ignited raw nerves, sending signals of overwhelming agony to his brain, until he was nearly insensible. At last he felt himself grow distant from his body and he welcomed the feeling gladly, finally tumbling into blessed unconsciousness.

* * *

Athos had spent a poor night, his thoughts revolving around his protégé and the information the boy’s uncle had shared. Not for the first time, he wondered at Porthos’ ability to sleep almost anywhere and at any time and who still snored softly now as the first rays of the sun touched the land around them. Aramis had stayed awake with him for the first few hours, the two drinking their way first through one and then another of Athos’ wine bottles, but then Aramis had lain down beside Porthos, drawing comfort and heat from his friend as he slipped into sleep. Athos had stayed sitting a few feet away, back against the wall, but had slowed his drinking considerably, only sipping from his glass when his throat felt parched. He needed a clear head this morning – had no doubt they all did – and planned to wake his friends in minutes so they might depart for the Baron’s house.

 

He wasn’t sure what he would say to the man who supposedly held their brother, but as in past instances, he was comfortable that the words would come, the same way that their bodies fell into the familiar motions of battle when the first musket was fired. Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair, still troubled by the fact that he hadn’t listened to the boy’s request. It was true that d’Artagnan had approached them all, but for some reason his failure seemed greater than the others, Athos knowing in his heart that the bond they shared was somehow different and more special than the ones he shared with his other brothers. As a result, he found the situation they were now in untenable and ached to be on the road to confront the Baron.

 

He’d seen captured men before, even rescued a pitiful few, and he knew that the more time that passed, the greater the chance that the Gascon would already be dead or in such a state where death would be preferable. Of course, that was assuming the Baron hadn’t killed the boy outright when he’d presented himself earlier; it was a line of thinking which Athos refused to entertain. Instead, he considered that three days in the hands of one’s enemy would seem interminable and he and his friends could not bear the thought of the young man suffering one minute longer than he already had. The challenge would be in their approach, Jacques having described the almost overwhelming number of men present. As Musketeers they were used to facing poor odds, but only a foolish man deliberately ran into a battle where they were outnumbered 5 to 1. Defeating a force of such size required more than strength, it required strategy, and Athos was frustrated to admit that his troubled mind had offered few ideas, even less of which had even a small chance of succeeding.

 

As he tipped his glass a last time, allowing the remaining few drops of wine to land on his tongue, he heard the crowing of the rooster, a sure sign that it was time to wake his friends so they could be on their way. Putting the glass down, he pushed himself slowly to his feet, stiff from the hours of sitting and tired from the lack of rest he’d experienced; but, he promised himself, they would all sleep well that night with their youngest brother returned to them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis allowed himself a last look back as they rode away from their friends, sending a prayer that his brothers would forgive him for leaving them behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for their continued support and for the comments letting me your thoughts about the story - much appreciated and a lot of fun to read! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

d’Artagnan’s head hung limply, no longer having the strength to look into the hateful gaze of his tormentor. He could feel the cold sweat covering his brow, sliding in rivulets down the sides of his face to drop onto the floor of the cell. The Gascon watched each drip as it landed with a gentle splat, momentarily darkening the dirt beneath him before it was absorbed back into the hard earth. He gasped for breath, his position pushing painfully on his damaged ribs, and he remembered ruefully how he’d always taken the simple act of inhaling and exhaling for granted. Never had he known such pain as he now endured, and a part of him was shocked that he was awake now, and even partially coherent. A slap to his bowed head brought him back to the present with a start, and he was surprised to find that he’d missed part of what the Baron had been saying; perhaps he wasn’t all that coherent after all, he thought to himself.

 

“Just tell me, boy. Tell me and this can all end,” the voice was soft and almost soothing in its timbre, the words washing over him and making him momentarily wonder why he hadn’t already answered. Then the realization of his situation dawned and d’Artagnan recalled that he’d been deceitful in his claims. There were no Musketeers coming; there would be no rescue and no one to defeat the Baron and his men, ending his reign of terror on the surrounding families. This time the hand moved to his dislocated shoulder, the Baron’s fingers capturing the joint and pressing on it, and d’Artagnan couldn’t stop the cry that was ripped from his throat.

 

As the white spots before his eyes cleared, he was aware that the hand’s cruel pressure had eased but still rested there, waiting to hear whether more persuasion would be necessary after the Gascon answered. Forcing himself to inhale slowly and evenly, he breathed out a name, “Lupiac.”

 

The Baron’s hand was removed and d’Artagnan had to stop himself from groaning in relief, knowing that he was still playing a dangerous game and uncertain how it would end. “Lupiac?”

 

The young man’s head rocked unsteadily on his shoulders, offering an uncoordinated nod as he sought the breath to continue, “We’re supposed to meet there.”

 

“How many men?” the Baron persisted.

 

“A dozen,” d’Artagnan lied, hoping that the man would believe his claim. The ride to Lupiac was relatively short, but it was possible that the Baron would go himself, giving the Gascon a day’s reprieve while they completed the round trip. Of course, that was assuming the man didn’t just kill him now.

 

Unknown to d’Artagnan, the Baron was inspecting him carefully, looking for any signs of dishonesty that hinted at a ruse rather than fact. Satisfied that the Musketeer had indeed spoken the truth, Gerard moved away, throwing a last comment over his shoulder as he pulled the cell door closed, “Be assured that I will let your brothers-in-arms know of your treachery as I slit their throats and soak the earth with their blood.” The clang of the door as it closed startled the Gascon but he was too far gone to react any further. He allowed his eyes to close, welcoming once more the insistent pull of unconsciousness.

* * *

They had eaten a quick and simple breakfast, more out of politeness than hunger as it would have been rude to decline what Jacques had already prepared. As soon as they were able, they saddled the horses and made their way to the Baron’s home, Athos having left a message for Treville in the old man’s hands with strict instructions to send someone on the road to Paris that very morning. Their situation was tenuous and Athos knew they would either find their youngest and bring him home, or they would die that day, exacting justice on those who had harmed him. In both cases, the Captain needed to be apprised and men would need to be sent.

 

The three Musketeers had dismounted on the crest of a hill overlooking the Baron’s house and they now lay flat on the grass, Aramis examining the building and the surrounding area to get a better idea of what awaited them. “That’s a dozen men and who knows how many more waiting inside,” the sharpshooter commented. “Please tell me you have a plan,” he beseeched Athos as he put down his telescope.

 

It was unusual to see their leader at a loss, but both men could see the doubt and despair in the older man’s eyes, clearly struggling from a lack of sleep and excessive worry, ensuring that no ideas had sprung forth from his overtaxed brain. “It’s alright, yeah,” Porthos clapped a hand gently on the man’s shoulder, “maybe if we watch just a little longer, we’ll come up with something.”

 

While Athos appreciated his brother’s encouragement, time was something they had precious little of, the need to storm the house and look for the Gascon nearly irresistible in its appeal. Before he could voice his frustration, Aramis was speaking again, “Hold on. What’s this?”

 

As the three watched, they could see several men mounting their horses, and Aramis’ telescope-aided view spotted a well-dressed man in their midst. Within minutes, 15 riders had departed the home’s courtyard, thundering down a well-worn road to the East. “Looks like this is our chance, eh?” Porthos suggested as the sound of hoof beats disappeared.

 

“How many?” Athos asked, Aramis already scouting the courtyard to tally the remaining men.

 

“I count two at the gate and one more at the front door,” Aramis responded.

 

With a short nod, Athos pushed himself to his feet, “There will likely be more inside but this will be our best opportunity.”

 

The other two agreed as Porthos asked, “How do you want to do this?”

 

“Aramis, how many can you hit from here?” Athos turned his attention back to the sharpshooter.

 

“Anyone who moves in the courtyard,” Aramis stated confidently.

 

“Porthos and I will approach the gate. We’ll take them quietly if we’re able, but shoot anyone else who gets in our way. We’ll make a run for the house and take the man at the door,” Athos explained.

 

Both men nodded, Porthos handing the extra harquebus he carried on his horse to his friend before he and Athos mounted their horses and moved down toward the house, dismounting before they reached the gates. Aramis watched their approach, harquebus trained on one or other of the men the entire time, pleased when he saw one guard fall to Athos’ well-placed dagger while the other was struck in the head by Porthos’ pistol. There was no clear line of sight between the gate and the front door, so the man who stood guard there was taken by surprise to see a swarthy Musketeer barreling in his direction, pinning the man quickly against the house with an arm across his throat, partially cutting of the man’s air supply and any opportunity he might have had to shout a warning to his friends.    

 

Athos followed quickly on his friend’s heels, his expression steely as he spoke to the bandit that Porthos restrained, “Another Musketeer arrived here three days ago. Where is he?” The man’s panicked eyes moved between the two soldiers, obviously calculating his odds of survival if he chose to stay silent.

 

“In the cellar, under the house,” the man croaked out, Porthos taking great satisfaction in the difficulty the bandit was having breathing and speaking. “The Baron made it into a sort of prison when his father passed.”

 

“Which way?” Porthos growled, pushing a little harder to encourage the man to continue being cooperative. As soon as they had their answer, Porthos knocked the back of the man’s head against the house behind him, leaving him to drop unconscious to the ground. They made their way swiftly through the house to the stairs leading down to the cellar, Athos motioning to Porthos to hang back at the top while he carefully moved downwards to investigate. The cellar was large and lanterns illuminated both the stairs leading down as well as the space itself. To his left he could see several barrels and various food stuffs, while to his right was another hallway. He followed the hallway which ended in not one but two barred cells, each of which would not have looked out of place in the Chatelet. He passed by the first, which was empty, coming to a halt at the second, the view that greeted him taking his breath away.

 

A man knelt with his back to one wall, his head drooping, face covered by his long dark hair. His arms were cruelly pulled behind and above him, forcing him to lean over his knees in order to reduce the strain on his shoulders. The man was dressed only in breeches and a shirt, the latter of which had turned dark with streaks of dirt. Most frightening of all was the man’s stillness, and Athos observed carefully for many long seconds to see any signs of movement that would indicate life. Hands shaking, he reached for the door, testing it with a couple quick tugs before confirming it was locked. With no key, they would need to pick the lock and Athos grudgingly admitted to himself that he would need to trade places with Porthos, his nimble fingers able to make short work of the locked door in half the time it would take Athos. Taking a last look at his protégé he stumbled back to the top of the stairs, already calling to his friend as he ran, “Porthos, there’s a lock that needs picking.” Porthos face appeared immediately, backlit by the sunlight that washed across the main floor where he stood as he peered downward at the older man.

 

“d’Artagnan?” he asked, already moving down the stairs.

 

“In the second cell. There are shackles around his arms as well,” Athos replied as he ran past, taking up the other man’s former position as lookout.

 

To say that Porthos was shocked by the young Gascon’s condition would have been an understatement; what he felt was fury, hot and fiery, aghast that anyone would treat another in such a manner. He made short work of the outer lock, pulling the cell door open to run inside and drop at his friend’s side. He knew that there was no way that Athos would have been able to confirm whether the boy still breathed and his hand trembled as he placed fingers to the boy’s throat, praying to feel the thrum of a heartbeat to reassure himself that the boy still lived. When he felt the rhythm of the young man’s heart, he let out the breath he’d been holding, and brought his hand around to cup the nape of the boy’s neck instead, frowning at the cool skin he found there. Resolving to free d’Artagnan as quickly as possible, he stood and turned his attention to the shackles that held him to the wall, cursing quietly again at the brutality of the position.

 

When he had both iron cuffs unlocked, he gently removed one then the other arm, supporting each as best he could. d’Artagnan was beginning to show signs of awareness as his arms were moved and Porthos could imagine the soreness that would plague the boy for days after his forced confinement. Easing the arms down gently, Porthos repositioned himself at the boy’s side, speaking to get the young man’s attention, “d’Artagnan, it’s Porthos. Can you hear me?” As he continued to support the boy’s now slumping body, Porthos placed a hand under the Gascon’s chin, tilting his head up. “We’ve come to rescue you. Are you with me, lad?”

 

A flutter of eyes met his and moments later he was greeted with two brown, pain-filled orbs that eased the band around his heart as d’Artagnan fought for awareness. “P’thos?” he slurred.

 

The sound of the young man’s voice had the larger Musketeer grinning broadly, “Ay, and we need to get out of here. Can you stand?” The Gascon seemed confused by the question, but then gave a hesitant nod as he began to struggle to his feet. Porthos began to pull the boy’s arm across his shoulders but a cry of pain had him stopping and holding d’Artagnan instead as he panted with the pain.

 

“S’rry, hurts,” he mumbled.

 

A shout from above had Porthos reconsidering his options as he bent forward and tipped the young man over his shoulder instead. d’Artagnan let out a huff of pain and then fell limp, and Porthos resigned himself to the fact that they’d need to get him out quickly and worry about his injuries once safely away from the Baron’s land. As Porthos neared the top of the stairs, the sounds of fighting reached his ears and he hoped that his other two friends were still alright.

* * *

Within minutes of his two friends disappearing inside the house, Aramis' ears picked up the telltale sounds of hoof beats and, as he watched, the men who had ridden out returned, only to stumble across the two insensate guards at the gate who the Musketeers had left where they’d dropped. Cursing softly under his breath in Spanish, Aramis cast a quick glance over his weapons before lining up his first shot. Trusting that the ball had struck its intended target, he dropped the spent harquebus, already reaching for another and seeking his next victim. When all three weapons were empty, he launched himself up, knowing that the only way to help his friends now was to speed his way down to the courtyard and join in the fray. He spurred his horse downwards as quickly as possible, drawing his pistol and firing as soon as he was within range, ducking to one side to avoid an answering shot. He cringed as he drew his sword, calculating that even if all his shots had landed, 11 bandits would still remain. Ruthlessly pushing the defeatist thought aside, he slashed at the first man that came into range, the blade slicing into the man’s neck to release a spray of red. Moving swiftly forward while some small element of surprise remained, he thrust forward at another target, only to receive a push from the other side that was forceful enough to unseat him. As he fell toward the hard ground, he clenched his hand tightly around his sword, not willing to release it with the jarring impact of his fall. Within seconds he’d regained his feet and was engaged with two men. A clash of steel by the front door alerted him to Athos’ presence and he allowed a small grin to emerge at the fact that he was no longer fighting alone.

 

Porthos was hanging back behind Athos, having successfully discharged his pistol but too encumbered by the Gascon’s body to be effective in the swordfights that now dominated the battle between the two groups. He could see Aramis engaged with two men while three more were harassing Athos. They were still outnumbered and several of the bandits were now taking their time to reload spent pistols, a situation which would end badly for the Musketeers if they remained. “Athos,” Porthos hissed urgently, motioning quickly to where the bandits stood reloading, standing in a semi-circle around the well-dressed noble.

 

Athos gave a quick nod of understanding and Porthos whistled once to get Aramis’ attention as well. As soon as the sharpshooter glanced in his direction, Porthos circled out and around Athos, even as the older man pushed back the men he fought, allowing the larger man to move toward the gate. Aramis turned his opponents as well, managing to place his back toward his two friends so they ended in a loose triangular formation as they moved in tandem toward the exit. Aramis finally managed to disarm one man, following with a slash that sliced deeply into the man’s midsection. Athos had managed to kick one of his men away from him and into Porthos’ reach, the larger man obligingly throwing a fist into the man’s face, dropping him instantly. All three knew the odds were still against them and if they succeeded in leaving the courtyard it would be only because the bandits had allowed them to; despite that, they didn’t falter, continuing to move step by step closer to their goal. So engrossed were the men with the bandits around them that none of them saw the Baron slowly pull his pistol and carefully take aim, cursing when one of his men knocked his arm, throwing off his aim. The sound of the shot startled everyone, the fighting pausing momentarily as the men searched for a wound, trying to determine if the ball came from friend or foe.

 

Athos was able to take advantage of one opponent’s temporary distraction, plunging his sword into the man’s chest before shifting his weight onto his back leg as he pulled the blade free. As the weight came onto his left leg, it crumpled beneath him and he was startled to find himself on the ground. Looking dumbly down at the leg, he could see a blossoming stain of red on his outer thigh as he comprehended where the discharged ball had landed. Athos tried to push himself to his feet, but the leg simply folded beneath him, dropping him back to his backside once more. Porthos let out a cry when he saw Athos drop for the second time and was momentarily torn between saving the brother he already held and the one who was newly wounded. The decision was removed from his control as a bandit came up in behind him, striking him on the head hard enough that he dropped to his knees, falling forward, causing the Gascon to slip from his grasp. As he looked up, trying to blink away his fuzzy vision, he watched as Aramis was rushed by two more men, bringing his attackers to three.

 

The sharpshooter momentarily caught sight of his three friends scattered on the ground and his face grew fearsome as he attacked with renewed vigor, dispatching one man with a flick of his dagger, while another dropped under his sword. The third man received a blow to the head from the pommel of his sword and Aramis was running for Porthos. The larger man was already shaking his head but he knew that his best chance of success was rescuing Porthos. Athos would be unable to move quickly enough on his injured leg while the Gascon was still unconscious, and neither man would be able to help mount a rescue attempt if he left Porthos behind. As a result, it was a heartsick but resolute Aramis who pulled Porthos roughly to his feet and had both of them running back to their horses. Their mounts were less than elegant, but within seconds, both were on their horses and galloping away from the carnage of the Baron’s courtyard. Aramis allowed himself a last look back as they rode away from their friends, sending a prayer that his brothers would forgive him for leaving them behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day or two of the Baron’s twisted hospitality was likely to leave both men completely at his mercy, fully dependant on outside intervention if they were ever to see daylight again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger in the last chapter - hopefully it didn't cause too many sleepless night! Hope you enjoy this next one.

“We shouldn’t ‘ave left ‘em,” Porthos grumbled, holding a cloth to his bleeding head.

 

Aramis wheeled on him, his pacing pausing for a moment at his friend’s words, “Don’t you think I know that? I didn’t want to leave them, but there was no other way.” The anguished pacing resumed as the sharpshooter wallowed in his guilt at not having been able to spirit all of his friends away to safety.

 

Porthos’ face softened, “I know, Aramis, you’re right. I just hate feelin’ like this.”

 

The quiet words caught Aramis’ attention and he stopped his frenetic pacing, moving to stand next to his friend instead, placing a hand on his shoulder. “How is your head?” he asked, reaching to move Porthos’ hand so he could examine the gash underneath.

 

They had ridden hard back to Jacques’ house, not having any other safe haven to return to and badly needing to regroup after their devastating defeat. The old man had been kind enough, allowing them back into his home and providing them with clean water and linen to take care of Porthos’ head, but then had disappeared into a back room, too distraught by thoughts of his nephew’s fate to remain in the Musketeers’ company.

 

“Does it need needlework?” Porthos asked, cringing as he allowed Aramis to examine his head.

 

Aramis snorted at the way in which his normally brave friend would behave more like a small child at the thought of stitches. “You were lucky; it’s already stopped bleeding.”

 

Porthos sighed and gratefully let his hand drop, placing the bloodied cloth on the table in front of him. He pushed at the chair next to him, motioning to his friend, “Sit down already. All that pacing isn’t going to help anyone.”

 

Aramis ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls in frustration as he slumped into the chair. “We need to get them out of there, Porthos.”

 

The large man looked into his friend’s anxious eyes as he laid a hand on the man’s forearm and promised, “We will.”

 

Aramis nodded back, a small amount of tension seeping from his bones at the warmth of the larger man’s touch. “What can you tell me about d’Artagnan’s condition?”

 

Porthos huffed unhappily at the question, knowing that it would only deepen Aramis’ worry but unable to intentionally hold back the information from him. “He was in pretty bad shape. Couldn’t stand or walk on his own and both shoulders strained at the very least. His wrists were torn up from the shackles…” He trailed off as the image of d’Artagnan’s kneeling form asserted himself and took a deep breath before he could continue. “They had his arms pulled behind him and bolted so high up that he was almost folded in half.”

 

Aramis’ face paled as he considered the conditions Porthos had described, shuddering momentarily at the thought that such a brutal man now had not one but two of their brothers. Porthos gently squeezed his friend’s forearm, grounding him back in the present, sharing his horror but knowing that there was little time now for recriminations. “Aramis, what about Athos?”

 

The medic shook his head, “I don’t know. It will depend on whether or not the ball is still in his leg and if they do anything to stop the bleeding.”

 

The two men fell silent. There were now only two of them, the Baron’s men still outnumbered them, their two friends were injured and in the hands of a madman; neither man could see a way forward that didn’t end in their deaths.

* * *

Athos gritted his teeth as he gingerly shifted to relief the pain in his injured leg, doing his best to balance while not placing undue pressure on his wrists. When Aramis and Porthos had ridden away, the Baron had been enraged and Athos could not help the small smirk that had graced his face at the fact that his friends had at least escaped. The Baron had wasted no time having his two prisoners moved back to his underground prison, and he’d been forced to watch as d’Artagnan had been manhandled back into the horrific position in which they’d discovered him earlier. He’d been surprised when they’d restrained him in the same cell as the young man, shackling his arms above him in a position that forced him to stand despite the hole in his leg. The only good news was that they didn’t seem inclined to let him die quite yet and Athos had endured the agony of having his wound roughly bound, biting his lip tightly so that the men wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing his sounds of pain.

 

Now, the Baron paced almost leisurely between his two captives, Athos staring resolutely at the Gascon who had his head bowed again, having cried out and then fallen unconscious once ore when his arms had been pulled behind him. The man had been walking slowly for several minutes, seemingly in no hurry and confident that he had the upper hand. Finally, he stopped in front of Athos, the Musketeer still looking past him unwaveringly. “I wonder if you would have succeeded had we not returned early due to a lame horse.” Gerard commented, hoping for a reaction. When he received none, he asked, “How many more of you are coming?”

 

Athos remained quiet, unwilling to provide any information and realizing quickly that the Baron seemed to be under the impression that an attack was coming. The Baron’s hand fell and Athos could feel it latching onto his leg, beginning to squeeze painfully at his wound. Biting the inside of his cheek, Athos refused to respond, the only indication of his pain being the rapid breaths he took as he fought to remain silent. After several moments, the Baron pulled his hand away, wiping his bloody fingers on Athos’ shirt, his doublet having been removed before he’d been restrained.

 

Noting Athos’ gaze, Gerard moved away from the older Musketeer and grabbed a handful of the Gascon’s hair, giving Athos a view of the boy’s closed eyes and lax jaw, confirming his unconscious state. “You care for this boy?” Gerard taunted, watching carefully for any reaction. When nothing changed, he pulled d’Artagnan’s head up further until Athos could see the boy struggling to breathe even though he was still unware. “I am told that Musketeers never travel alone. How many more of you are there?”

 

Athos’ steely gaze shifted minutely, meeting the other man’s eyes for the first time. His clipped words conveyed his deep disgust at the noble who stood before him, “I can promise you that the retribution our brothers will enact for our poor treatment will be decisive and permanent.”

 

The Baron was obviously not used to being talked to in such a manner and he seethed at Athos’ words, yanking once more on the Gascon’s hair before letting go, d’Artagnan’s head dropping limply as soon as the man’s hand was removed. Moving once more into Athos’ space, the Musketeer was forced to pull his head back as the Baron nearly spat at him, “I have broken better men than you and by the time your fellow Musketeers come for you, there will hardly be enough left to recognize your remains.”

 

As the man stormed away, Athos allowed himself to put voice to his thoughts, murmuring too lowly for the other man to hear, “You may have broken better men than me, but you will never find one better than d’Artagnan.” The cell door slammed as Gerard stalked away and the Musketeer brought his eyes back to the Gascon. “d’Artagnan,” he called, “can you hear me?” There was no reply and Athos cursed the fact that he was so close to the boy, yet still unable to do anything more than hope he would wake soon, and pray his condition would not deteriorate further before they were rescued.

 

His thoughts turned back to his other two friends. He’d seen Porthos go down and knew Aramis had made the right choice when he’d taken the large man rather than one of them, although as he looked once more at the Gascon’s hunched form, a part of him wished Aramis had rescued the young man instead. He knew d’Artagnan would have been too difficult for Aramis to manage, but the Gascon had been in the Baron’s hands for several days and, from what he’d seen, those days had not been kind. He considered now what options remained and was frustrated as his tired brain continuously came to the same conclusion; without additional assistance, there was little to be done. d’Artagnan was obviously incapable of escaping even if he could free himself. For his part, Athos could already feel the numbness in his hands and arms as their raised position drained the blood from them, and the weakness in his injured leg made it harder to maintain his balance. Another day or two of the Baron’s twisted hospitality was likely to leave both men completely at his mercy, fully dependant on outside intervention if they were ever to see daylight again. 

* * *

Treville prided himself on his leadership skills, proving time and again that he was able to artfully assess what each of the men under his command required and providing it. Since his three inseparables had ridden, ostensibly missing their fourth, he’d felt disturbed in a way he couldn’t describe, but recognized it as a warning of impending trouble. Over the course of his many years as a soldier, he’d learned to trust these feelings, still recalling with great regret the one time he’d dismissed them and his men had paid with their lives. As a result, he’d wasted no time in speaking with the King and the Cardinal, arranging for his absence from the garrison for the next several weeks, leaving one of his other trusted lieutenants in charge. While he attended to business at the palace, several men were carrying out the orders he’d left, preparing men and horses for their trip to Gascony. They would depart the following morning and Treville was confident that they would make the trip in six days, rather than the typical seven, his stomach roiling uncomfortably once more and reminding him that where these four Musketeers were concerned, time was always of the essence.

 

When they arrived at the small farmhouse in Gascony, it was not long past dawn and the Captain was surprised to be greeted by an armed and fully-dressed Aramis, clearly awake and both stressed and fatigued, confirming that his feelings of disquiet had proven correct yet again. Pulling his horse to a stop several feet away from the dishevelled Musketeer, Treville eyed the man carefully as he greeted him, “Aramis.”

 

While the normally affable man would have smiled and offered a polite greeting to his Captain, Aramis instead slumped in relief, the lines of worry on his face painting an unpleasant picture for his commanding officer, “Captain, you received our message.” Treville’s face showed confusion at the sharpshooter’s statement and as Aramis read the other man’s expression, he amended his earlier comment, “You didn’t receive our message. How did you know to come?”

 

The Captain shrugged as he admitted, “I may have sensed that you were in trouble and taken it upon myself to follow you here.”

 

The words brought a tired grin to Aramis’ face and Treville couldn’t help smiling back. “I’m grateful, Captain, we do need your help.” Pointing to the barn, he suggested, “Why don’t you have one of the others take care of your horse while we talk inside.”

 

Treville nodded and dismounted, handing the reins to one of his men before following Aramis. He was surprised to see Porthos inside, sitting in one chair with his feet on another, clearly just having woken and looking blearily at the two men entering.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis said, infusing the man’s name with so much more and bringing a fond grin to the larger man’s face.

 

“It’s fine, Aramis, not even a headache today,” Porthos replied as he removed his feet from the second chair and sat fully upright. At Treville’s questioning eyebrow, Porthos explained, “Had a bit of a run in with some unsavoury types yesterday and I took a hit to the head.”

 

The Captain nodded, knowing well of Aramis’ tendency to worry over his friends.

 

Aramis didn’t notice the two men now turning their gazes to him as he sat down, scrubbing a hand tiredly across his face before looking up. “What?” he asked, realizing that he seemed to be the centre of attention, but not understanding why.

 

Growing serious, Treville turned the conversation back to the reason they were in Gascony, “Why don’t you tell me more about the trouble that you ran into and, while you’re at it, where are Athos and d’Artagnan?”

 

The two Musketeers’ faces fell and Porthos took on a dangerous look, “They’ve been caught by the local Baron. We went there yesterday to look for d’Artagnan and found him locked up like an animal,” Porthos spat.

 

Aramis sighed and nodded sadly, “We watched most of the men ride out and took advantage of the opportunity, but they returned before we’d managed to leave. They still have d’Artagnan and now Athos as well.”

 

Treville’s brow furrowed at the thought that two of his best men were being held against their will. “Negotiation is not an option?”

 

Both men shook their heads, Porthos explaining, “He’s been terrorizing the locals for a while, which is why d’Artagnan’s uncle wrote him.”

 

“He’d expected that d’Artagnan would bring his fellow Musketeers along and would be able to bring the Baron’s misdeeds to an end. Instead…” Aramis trailed off, reminded once more how they’d failed their friend.

 

“Instead, d’Artagnan went on his own and they have him chained in the cellar,” Porthos growled.

 

The Captain gave a short nod, understanding the need to tread carefully, the two men in front of him affected by guilt as well as worry for their two friends, a combination that was likely to make them hot-headed and reckless and resistant to reason. “d’Artagnan’s uncle?”

 

“Left last night when we came back empty-handed,” Aramis replied. “He’s beside himself at the thought of d’Artagnan getting hurt because of his letter and fears that the Baron will come here to finish him off. I believe he said he’d be staying with some friends a couple towns over.”

 

Treville wasn’t pleased at the loss of their best source of local intelligence but at the same time found himself relieved at not having the man in the way as they planned. “How many men does the Baron have?”

 

“We killed and wounded a fair few,” Porthos said as he considered the question. “Maybe a dozen left who can still fight?” He glanced at Aramis who confirmed his estimate with a tilt of his head.

 

“Alright,” the Captain took charge. “Aramis, get some sleep. It’s clear that you’ve been up all night, once more thinking more of your injured comrade than yourself.” Aramis looked like he might argue but Porthos’ satisfied smirk gave him away and he nodded instead. “Porthos, you’ll tell me everything you can about the Baron’s house and where our men are being kept so we can come up with a plan.”

 

Aramis stood and left the room, returning moments later with a bottle and two glasses, placing the items on the table. At the Captain’s inquiring look, he shrugged, “Can’t hurt to lubricate the planning process.” With a small grin he turned on his heel and found the room that d’Artagnan had found that first night, removed his boots and fell gratefully onto the thin mattress, half asleep before his head hit the pillow. 

* * *

When a man came with bread and water, the creaking of the door woke a decidedly muzzy-headed d’Artagnan but he was too weak to do more than listen as the man stepped inside the cell. He startled slightly when he felt hands on his arms, releasing him from his uncomfortable position and a gasp of pain escaped him as his arms were allowed to drop, the man compounding his misery by pushing his body over with a booted foot before laughing harshly and moving away. The Gascon’s vision narrowed dangerously as he found himself laying on his dislocated shoulder, lacking the strength to roll over to ease the pressure on the damaged joint. He had no idea how long he laid like that, gasping for air and doing his best not to succumb to the darkness that threatened to engulf him. A touch on his arm made him jump weakly once more, drawing another moan from his throat, and he could do nothing as someone rolled him onto his back. The change in position brought much needed relief and d’Artagnan simply lay there, savoring the lessened level of pain as he waited for the sound of blood rushing in his ears to stop. When it finally did, he was aware of someone calling his name, and it caused his brow to furrow in confusion, worried that the Baron was back to question him once more.

 

With effort he managed to pry open heavy eyelids and looked at the silhouette of a man above him, unable to make out his face through his still bleary vision. “d’Artagnan, are you with me?” a voice asked, and the Gascon swallowed thickly as he tried to process the words he’d heard. The man moved for a moment and when he returned, once more blocking out some of the weak light from the two torches, his head was gently lifted and a cup placed at his mouth. When the cool water touched his lips, he parted them and drank greedily, but the cup was pulled away after only a few swallows, pulling a soft whimper from him at its loss. “Peace, d’Artagnan, you can have more in a few minutes.” The voice was warm and comforting, full of compassion and oddly familiar.

 

Blinking again, the Gascon swallowed more easily as he breathed out a single word, “Athos?”

 

The man above him let out a relieved breath, a smile gracing his features at having been recognized, shifting slightly to one side and d’Artagnan’s head and eyes followed, now seeing his friend more clearly. “It’s good to have you back,” Athos stated, a hand on the boy’s chest so he could feel the steady beat of his heart.

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze clouded. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

 

Athos grimaced slightly as he admitted, “We came to rescue you.” The statement drew a quiet huff from the Gascon, followed quickly by a wince of pain. The reaction had Athos leaning closer in concern, “Are you alright?”

 

d’Artagnan knew he was very far from alright, but while in the Baron’s grasp, there was little that could be done. “Fine,” he replied, exhaling carefully.

 

Athos’ eyebrow climbed at the Gascon’s words, knowing fully that the young man had suffered. “Porthos told me that you could barely stand earlier.”

 

Athos’ words gave confirmation that the memory of having seen the larger man had been real and not a pain-induced hallucination. “Wasn’t sure he was real,” he answered softly, his eyes beginning to drift closed as a shiver racked his frame. He felt the warmth leave his chest and move to his forehead, prompting him to open his eyes again. “Don’t have a fever,” he stated, grumpily.

 

“No,” Athos replied, “on the contrary, you’re quite cold. Are there any injuries I need to be aware of before I move you?”

 

He considered hiding his infirmity for a moment before recognizing that any movement was likely to have him crying in pain, denying his protests that he was well. “Right shoulder and rib,” he paused for a breath, “think one’s broken.”

 

“May I?” Athos asked, hand hovering over his side but waiting for permission before he lifted the boy’s shirt. Upon receiving a short nod, he pushed the dirty and tattered shirt upwards, exposing the boy’s flank and causing another ripple through his frame as the cold air touched his skin. Pushing gently, he confirmed that one rib was broken and another likely cracked, the entire side a tapestry of livid bruising and a testament to the abuse he’d suffered at his captor’s hands. Athos pulled the shirt down carefully, replacing his hand on the young man’s chest for a moment, willing some of the warmth to seep into the boy’s body. When the Gascon’s breathing had slowed, he pulled at the collar of his shirt, exposing the bruised and swollen joint, confirming that the boy’s shoulder was badly dislocated. Allowing the shirt to fall back into place, Athos took a deep breath as he met d’Artagnan’s eyes, “I’m sorry, it’s too swollen for me to put back.”

 

The Gascon nodded, “I know, it’s been a while since it happened.”

 

Athos looked around him, judging the distance to the closest wall and how he could manoeuver the two of them against it with the least amount of effort and pain. “I think we’ll be more comfortable against that wall,” he told the young man.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “They’ll be back soon.” At Athos’ furrowed brow, he explained, “They only give us an hour to eat and drink. Then we’ll be bound again.”

 

Athos couldn’t stop a sharp inhale at the boy’s words before forcing a calm he didn’t feel, the need to alleviate some of the young man’s pain almost a tangible thing. “Then we will at least be comfortable for the time we have available,” he stated resolutely, already reaching for the food and water they’d been left and placing it closer to the wall where he intended to position them.

 

Getting himself and then the Gascon into place was a slow and painful process, but eventually he was sitting against the wall, the boy between his legs and partially upright against his chest. The tremors that shook the young man’s frame were now far more obvious and Athos prayed that the boy would warm somewhat from their shared body heat. Wrapping one arm loosely around the boy’s waist, he reached for the cup of water with his other hand, bringing it again to the Gascon’s mouth so he could drink. When the cup had been drained, d’Artagnan drew a careful breath so he could ask, “Athos, why?”

 

The older man cocked his head at the odd question, waiting for the boy to continue. When nothing more was forthcoming, he clarified, “Why, what?”

 

“Why did you come?” d’Artagnan questioned, his voice thready and tinged with defeat.

 

“I don’t understand,” Athos started, surprised when the Gascon interrupted him.

 

“I asked but you all had other things to do,” he explained. Athos was stunned, having forgotten about the events in Paris that had led to the young man being alone in the first place. He knew that they would need to make amends but he’d been distracted by their current situation and now found himself completely unprepared for this conversation. How could he possibly explain that he’d been horribly hung-over and that it was because of his inability to control his drinking that the boy had found himself bereft of his brothers as he’d faced not only the long trip to Gascony, but then the cruelty that the noble had inflicted? There was surely no way that his actions could be seen as anything other than exceptionally selfish. How could the boy possibly forgive him? Athos was pulled from his thoughts when d’Artagnan spoke again, and the older man realized belatedly that he’d been silent for quite some time. “Sorry, Athos, I shouldn’t have asked.”

 

“No,” Athos started, determined to correct the young man’s assumption that he’d done something wrong, but before he could say more, the bandit from before returned, eyeing the two men with a nasty smirk.

 

“Don’t you two look cozy?” he sneered as he pulled the cell door open and moved closer. Another man followed, aiming a pistol at the Musketeers. “Put him down and get up. If you try anything, we’ll shoot him.”

 

Athos sat still for several moments, assessing their chances and reluctantly concluding that they had no choice but to comply. Gently, he pushed d’Artagnan forward until the boy shakily braced himself upright with his good arm. Once he was steady, Athos pulled himself out from behind the young man, helping the boy to lay down once he was free in order to remove the strain on the Gascon’s stressed arm muscles. Using the wall to slowly gain his feet, Athos bit his lip as the foot of his injured leg touched the ground.

 

At the bandit’s order, he limped painfully to the other wall where he’d been shackled earlier, each step sending a jolt of fire through his leg, leaving him breathing heavily and leaning against the wall when he’d reached the spot he’d occupied earlier. The bandit stepped forward warily, pulling both arms above Athos’ head and reattaching the chains that had held him earlier. When he was done, the second bandit holstered his pistol and the two moved toward the Gascon, each man grabbing an arm, pulling an anguish-filled cry from the boy as his damaged shoulder was jostled. By the time that d’Artagnan had been bound and the two were alone again, it was clear that the boy had fallen unconscious once more. The realization left Athos feeling equal parts relieved and regretful, glad that the young man had some respite from the pain of his injuries but wishing that they could have spoken further so he could have explained his earlier actions in Paris. Sighing, Athos adjusted his position, trying fruitlessly to alleviate some of the pressure on his wounded leg and abraded wrists.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing his eyes, he tried to distract himself from his growing discomfort, reminding himself once more that Aramis and Porthos had escaped and would be coming for them – it was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all those who continue to follow and leave kudos on this story and to those of you who shared your reactions to the last chapter - your comments put a smile on my face. Hope you enjoy this next one!

They had made the decision to attack under cover of darkness, hoping that the night would provide them with additional cover from unwelcome eyes and give them the advantage of engaging a force that was mostly asleep and hopefully slow to react. Porthos had ridden to the Baron’s house that afternoon with two others, who then stayed to watch in case anything of consequence happened. Treville had the remaining men preparing themselves for that night’s attack, allowing Aramis to get some much-needed sleep, since he knew it would be impossible to keep him away from that evening’s foray.

 

It was nearly dinnertime before Aramis emerged, hair in disarray but looking much more rested and aware, and the Captain silently applauded his earlier decision to let the man sleep. He dropped into a chair at the table, helping himself to a plate and some of the food that was laid out, while Porthos poured him a glass of wine. Raising the glass appreciatively before he took a sip, he swallowed and turned his attention to the Captain who sat across from him. “What’s the plan?”

 

Treville watched as Aramis took a bite, pleased that the man had an appetite after the previous day’s events, “We’ll ride out tonight. Thierry and Sebastien are there now watching, and the others have been making their preparations out in the barn. Aramis, you’ll stay on the ridge to provide covering fire, while the rest of us move in.”

 

Aramis swallowed quickly, countering, “Captain, I won’t stay out of this fight again, waiting above where it’s safe while my brothers are in danger below.”

 

“Aramis,” Treville interjected, “I know that you want to be closer to the rescue but it’s my job to use the strengths of every solider under my command. I don’t make this decision lightly, but our odds of success increase with you on high ground.”

 

Aramis bit his lip and considered the Captain’s words, clearly unhappy with the idea that he would once more be so far apart from his friends. Porthos reached a hand over and placed it on the sharpshooter’s shoulder, causing Aramis to meet the larger man’s gaze. After a few seconds of silent communication, Aramis seemed to deflate and he looked back at Treville and nodded. “Good. Porthos and I will enter the house with Fouquet while the others guard our exit. We’ll leave as soon as we have Athos and d’Artagnan.”

 

“And what of the Baron’s crimes?” Aramis questioned.

 

Treville glanced at Porthos, obviously having had this same conversation earlier, before tiredly replying, “If we can take him, we will, but our primary objective is to rescue our men.”      

 

Aramis’ eyes flitted to Porthos before he returned his gaze to his food, shovelling another bite into his mouth. He was confident that he and the larger man were of the same mind and the Baron would have a target on his back, but he said nothing more in front of the Captain. When he’d swallowed his last mouthful, chasing it down with the wine, he placed his empty glass on the table and leaned back in his chair, “I’d best clean my weapons if we’re to have some fun tonight.” His dry tone belied any humour in his words as Porthos reached down, his hands coming up with two harquebuses which he placed in front of the sharpshooter.

 

“Cleaned and loaded, and there’s four more ready and waiting for you outside,” Porthos explained. “Your pistol too, but you’ll have to scrub the blood off your blade yourself.” At Aramis raised eyebrow, he added with mirth in his eyes, “Couldn’t do all of the work for you, lazy bugger.”

 

Aramis grinned fondly at his friend’s words, knowing that they were intended to make him relax, the time before battle always the worst, causing many normally steady men to shake with fear and anticipation which could lead to later fatal mistakes. While the upcoming skirmish would not have typically caused either man to hesitate, the fact that they’d been defeated once, combined the with the high stakes of the friends’ lives, made both men more tense than they would be otherwise. Trusting that the men would do what was necessary to get themselves ready, Treville stood, “We’ll leave two hours after sunset.” At the returning nods from both men, he turned away and made his way outside to check on the others.

 

As Aramis began to scrub at the blood left on his sword with the cloth Porthos had handed him, he asked, “How’s your head?”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes at the predictability of his friend’s question, “Told you, it’s fine.”

 

Aramis raised his eyes for a few moments, assessing the truth of his friend’s words and gave a short nod when he was satisfied. Scrubbing at his blade once more, he continued, “You were at the Baron’s earlier?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos answered, pulling a hand through his curls, “They’ve doubled the guards at the gate and the front door. I’m hopin’ he doesn’t have more men than we saw yesterday, otherwise it’ll be a near thing.”

 

Aramis hummed absently before he paused in his cleaning, pinning his friend with an intense look, “We have to get them out of there tonight, Porthos. Promise me, whatever it takes.”

 

Porthos nodded, sharing Aramis’ desire to free their brothers from the noble’s grasp, “Whatever it takes.”

 

Aramis gave a satisfied nod before returning his attention back to his blade, Porthos sitting quietly at his side, the two men drawing comfort from each other’s presence as they readied themselves to fight for their brothers’ lives.

* * *

Athos was pleased when d’Artagnan awoke, noting the subtle shifts in the young man’s breathing and the tension in the boy’s limbs. “d’Artagnan?”

 

The space between them remained silent for several long seconds before Athos could see the Gascon visibly steeling himself to take a deeper breath so he could reply, “Athos.”

 

“Yes, I’m here. How are you feeling?” Athos queried, flinching at having asked such a seemingly redundant question, but his need to know too great not to voice it.

 

“Really?” came the incredulous response, followed by another pause during which d’Artagnan fought for breath. Despite their dire situation, the reply brought a soft smile to Athos’ face as he imagined the wry grin that would have accompanied the young man’s words. “M’fine, Athos,” the tone was resigned, the Gascon familiar with the older man’s need to confirm that his condition was no worse than before, and that he would be unlikely to desist with his questions until d’Artagnan provided a satisfactory answer.

 

“Good,” Athos breathed out, the knot in his stomach loosening just slightly. “I’m glad that you’re awake,” he began, pausing as he searched for the right words to continue. “It will give me a chance to try to explain about before.”

 

“Before?” d’Artagnan wheezed.

 

“I want to apologize for my behaviour when you came to my rooms to ask for help,” Athos confessed, his tone contrite. “I regret not having listened to what you were saying and ordering you to leave.”

 

“S’alright, Athos,” the Gascon replied softly. “Shouldn’t have asked.”

 

Athos frowned at the young man’s reply, confused why d’Artagnan would believe that he had been wrong to ask his friends for help. “But who else would you ask?” he wondered aloud. He watched as the Gascon gave a slow shake of his head but missed the lowly mumbled “ _no one_ ” that slipped from the boy’s lips. “d’Artagnan?” Athos prompted.

 

“What?” the reply came back, the irritation clear in the young man’s tone.

 

“You were well within your rights to ask for my help – for _our_ help. It is no less than you have offered freely to us in the past and I am sorry we failed you,” Athos declared, infusing his voice with as much sincerity as he was able, desperate for his protégé to understand the depth of his regret.  

 

d’Artagnan’s head was reeling, his mind foggy from days of too little food and too much pain, and suffering from the effects of the mistreatment piled on him by the Baron and his men. A part of him prayed that Athos’ words were genuine, longing to return to the comfort of his previous beliefs when he counted himself incredibly fortunate at having been allowed into the fold, becoming one of the inseparables – three morphing seamlessly into four. But he was plagued by doubt as he recalled Porthos’ eagerness to return to his card game and Aramis dismissing him outright, as if the Gascon’s words were of little consequence. The men’s brusque replies had shaken the faith he had in the bond between himself and the three men, bringing to mind the many times when he’d been dispatched on their behalf to assist with one task or another, and while he’d given his help freely, their last encounter had him considering the previous months in a different light. Perhaps instead of helping the men out of friendship as he’d thought, the others had viewed his deeds as expected payment for the privilege of being in their company. He gave his head another small shake, desperate to find clarity in his muddled thoughts. What if Athos’ words were true? Was it possible that the men’s reactions had been mere coincidence, a result of poor timing and even worse luck which had conspired to separate him from his friends when he needed them most? d’Artagnan moaned with the conflicting thoughts that clouded his mind, the tendrils of one twining with the others until he could no longer make sense of the chaotic tapestry that overwhelmed him.

 

Athos had watched the Gascon silently, hoping to hear that he’d been forgiven and fearful of what would happen if he had not. He saw the young man shaking his head and wondered if that meant that his transgression had been too great to absolve, adding his ruined relationship with the boy to the many others which he had destroyed. He found the thought to be unacceptable and vowed that he would not let the matter drop so easily, doing whatever was necessary to earn absolution. d’Artagnan’s moan caught his attention and made Athos worry that perhaps there was something more paining the boy, and he drew a breath to call out when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The Baron appeared outside the cell door and pushed his way in, Athos groaning to himself in anticipation of the man’s actions. The creak of the cell door opening caught d’Artagnan’s attention as well, and Athos was heartened to see the boy momentarily lift his head up to watch the noble enter, suggesting he was not yet so far gone as to be unaware of his surroundings.

 

The Baron strode forward confidently, taking his time in examining the older Musketeer, noting the sodden bandage that wrapped around the man’s thigh, how he leaned to one side in order to remove the weight from his wounded leg, and the lines of pain around the man’s eyes. Despite his obvious discomfort, the look on the man’s face was as neutral as before and Gerard found his anger rising at the disdain that was clear in the Musketeer’s eyes. Sensing that this man cared little for his own welfare, he turned slowly and moved to stand by the Gascon’s side, watching the older man carefully. As he’d predicted, the Musketeer maintained his façade of calm but his eyes watched the Baron’s every movement.

 

“Are you ready to answer my questions yet?” Gerard asked, his tone casual, as if he cared little for the answer. Not unexpectedly, neither man answered. A slow smile spread across the noble’s face as he locked gazes with the Musketeer standing across from him. “Who is he to you, hmm?” Several silent seconds passed, Athos making it clear that he had no intention of responding. The Baron began to walk slowly between the two as he thought out loud. “Musketeers often speak of their brothers-in-arms, their loyalty to one another which guides their actions, both on and off the battleground.” Gerard paused for a moment, his eyes flitting back to Athos. “All soldiers will tell you that a special bond exists between the men who fight at their side; such things can only be forged in the heat of battle and those who haven’t experienced the fear of death and the exhilaration of killing the enemy simply don’t understand. But we do, don’t we?” Athos was still silent, but Gerard could see that he still had the other man’s attention. “Of course, most soldiers have been seasoned, their mettle tested in battle so they have proven their worth to the men who fight with them. This boy,” the Baron shifted his gaze to d’Artagnan, “is hardly old enough to shave, let alone have proven his worth to stand by your side. So I ask you again, what is he to you?”

 

Gerard now stood uncomfortably close to the Gascon and the young man lifted his head briefly, meeting Athos’ eyes for a moment before he could hold the position no more. The few seconds of eye contact had been enough, though, and Athos understood d’Artagnan’s silent plea to say nothing, no matter what happened. Meeting the noble’s gaze, Athos replied, the true implication of his words lost on their captor, “As you’ve said, he is my brother.” As the words left his mouth, Athos prayed that the Gascon would understand his meaning, intending to remind the boy of what he meant and to make amends for how they’d treated him earlier.

 

The Baron was nodding, seemingly considering the man’s words and Athos was beginning to relax, believing that the man would leave them once more to suffer before returning to try again. Instead, the man moved incredibly quickly, and Athos caught sight of a flash of steel before hearing a howl of pain. Stunned, his mind tried to process what had just happened, the Baron speaking again, followed by another cry and then the noble was gone. Athos was breathing hard, trembling with rage and worry, and he licked his dry lips in hesitation before speaking, “d’Artagnan.” He could see how the young man was struggling to breathe, the hunched position offering little space for his damaged ribcage to expand as it pressed against his knees. Minutes passed and Athos’ gaze never wavered, grateful for each movement that confirmed the Gascon still lived.

 

Finally, when he’d given up hearing from the boy, d’Artagnan raised his head, eyes glazed with pain. “Still here,” he hissed, his head dropping again almost immediately after he’d spoken.

 

Athos’ legs nearly buckled in relief and he gasped with pain as his weight shifted, the wound in his thigh protesting vehemently. “How bad?” he asked, the position he was in affording him little more than a view of a patch of red against the boy’s shirt.

 

“Bad enough,” d’Artagnan gritted out as he watched the drops of blood leak from his shoulder and land on the ground at his knees. When the knife had plunged into his shoulder, the shock of it had pulled a scream from him. The knife’s exit had almost been worse, the pain blinding in its intensity as the blade retraced its path, this time skimming through already damaged muscle as it was sickeningly pulled from his flesh. The wound was not so much on his back as it was at the top of his shoulder, near the joint, and the thought that both shoulders were now damaged almost had him giggling in hysterics until he realized how Athos would likely interpret his actions. Blinking, he tried to rid his eyes of the excess moisture that pooled there as his body struggled with the extreme pain of his injuries. His shoulders and side seemed to be the only pinpoints of heat in his otherwise cold body, and the feeling was spreading now as his limbs shook again, completely unable to control the trembling no matter how much he wanted to. His vision was dimming and his hearing seemed to have deserted him, and with no reason to remain, he allowed his eyes to close and fell unconscious despite Athos’ urgent calls, which couldn’t penetrate the darkness surrounding him.  

 

Athos watched as his protégé lost his battle to stay awake, the toll on his body too great with the added pain of his new wound, compounded by blood loss. He pulled harshly to free his hands, feeling the fresh trickles of blood winding down his arms as he reopened the barely healing wounds on his wrists. The desperation of their situation had him throwing his head back for several moments before allowing it to drop again, painfully reminded that they were reliant on outside help if they were to get out of their current situation. The only question was whether they would be rescued in time. While he could see the Gascon racked more frequently by shivers, he himself was actually quite warm, rapidly becoming uncomfortably hot. The hole in his leg throbbed with each beat of his heart and he recognized the inevitable signs of infection, his wound not having been treated properly and the ball still sitting awkwardly in the meat of his thigh. Closing his eyes, he tried to distract himself from his growing discomfort, reminding himself once more that Aramis and Porthos had escaped and would be coming for them – it was only a matter of time.

* * *

They checked with Sebastian and Thierry first when they arrived at the hill that overlooked the Baron’s house and were glad to hear that all had been quiet. The men at the gates and front door had been rotated twice while they’d watched, at three-hour intervals, suggesting a larger force inside than what had been previously anticipated since none of the men on guard duty had been repeated in the hours they’d spent observing. The news was unwelcome but the Musketeers were resolute and, as Treville looked at Aramis and Porthos, he knew that nothing would stop them from the night’s attempted rescue. They totalled eight men, which suggested they were still outnumbered two to one, but the Captain was confident that a stealthy entry along with their superior skills could still deliver victory into their hands. Aramis prepared his weapons, laying them within easy reach, Sebastian to stay with him and reload for as long as was practical. The sharpshooter again chafed at the fact that he’d be separated from his brothers while the men below disarmed the guards and enacted their rescue plans, with him only entering the fray if the men were discovered since the sound of gunfire would draw unwanted attention to the Musketeers’ presence.

 

Porthos clasped Aramis’ arm in a brief but firm grip, the touch conveying so much more than words could. _Be safe, I’ll bring them back, don’t do anything foolish._ Aramis smiled warmly as he returned his friend’s hold, similar unspoken messages reflected in his own eyes and Porthos ducked his head shyly as he gave a quick nod of understanding before releasing his friend’s arm. His focus immediately shifting, Porthos returned to Treville’s side and with a quick glance to the other men, the Captain nodded and they moved forward stealthily, keeping to the shadows as they crept downwards towards their target. Aramis lay down on the hill, holding a harquebus in the firing position, Sebastian’s quiet breathing beside him the only sounds in the still night. They were fortunate to have only a half-moon lighting the night, protecting the men who glided silently down the hill but sufficiently illuminating the guards below who remained unaware of their attackers’ presence.

 

Aramis watched as men seemed to separate themselves from the gloom to silently incapacitate the guards at the gate. From this distance, it was difficult to clearly distinguish one Musketeer from another, but the sharpshooter recognized Porthos’ fluid movements as the man seemed to rise up from the earth to draw a blade along one of the bandit’s throats, supporting him quietly to the ground, lest the sound of his death draw any others’ attention. They didn’t kill indiscriminately, but in this instance he and Porthos were in agreement – there would be no mercy for the men who had imprisoned and tortured their brothers. The Musketeers moved forward cautiously, getting lost in the deeper shadows closer to the house and Aramis had to stop himself from sighing in frustration. Then he saw the front door open for a moment, the light from inside revealing three figures who crept inside before the door was closed once more. They had successfully made their way inside and there was nothing more to do but to watch and wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two men were unrelenting, Porthos maintaining his firm hold and immediately speaking words of comfort as Aramis continued pouring until he was satisfied that the wound was as clean as it could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for having left folks hanging off the cliff once more in the last chapter; hopefully this somewhat longer chapter will make up for it. Enjoy!

Athos had lost all sense of time and, for some reason, it bothered him more than it should; perhaps it was linked to his desire to maintain control over his and d’Artagnan’s destiny, he hazarded a guess, as he sighed again with the heat that seemed to be his now constant companion. He knew that his mind had grown foggy as the fever in his body increased, causing him to lose periods of time, although exactly how much was anybody’s guess. With the ongoing lapses in awareness had come the discomfort of waking, usually accompanied by the unpleasant pull on his sore shoulders and arms, which invariably ended up holding his weight when he was too far gone to maintain his footing. Once he’d been jarred awake by the painful sensation of shifting his weight onto his injured leg, which had promptly collapsed underneath him, causing him to minutely drop until the shackles around his wrists caught hold and tore more of the skin there as he hung from his arms. Athos knew he should try to stay awake, but the task was becoming more challenging with each minute that passed and d’Artagnan had been no help, the few times when he’d responded to the older man’s calls producing nothing more than a few inarticulate moans as the Gascon endured his own agony.

 

As his heavy lids threatened to close once more, Athos’ thoughts turned to his dead brother and wife, his two greatest regrets and the source of the demons that haunted him. He’d come to Paris to drown himself and would not have been unhappy to have met his end somewhere in a ditch or back alley among the rats and the filth that marked Paris’ more unsavoury areas. When Treville had found him and offered him a commission, it seemed like a way that he might redeem himself, atoning for the sins that scarred his soul and drove him from la Fere. When Aramis and Porthos had tried to break through his defenses, he was determined to keep his distance, but somehow the men had not only persisted but eventually prevailed and now he could not imagine his days without them. Then there was d’Artagnan, and Athos allowed a soft sigh to escape him as he realized that the man who had become like a younger brother to him would be his last regret. Having hurt the boy with his gruff words and being unsuccessful in his attempts to apologize, d’Artagnan would either die believing he’d been abandoned by his friends, or Athos would die without having made amends; either way, Athos was surprised to feel tears at his eyes, which he made no effort to stop from falling.

 

“Athos,” Porthos hissed, seeing the man’s eyes closed but not able to discern anything further in the poor light. The older man’s eyes opened and he blinked several times to clear away the moisture blurring his vision to find Porthos picking the lock on the cell door. Porthos grinned widely as he saw his friend’s eyes open, whispering, “We’ll have you out shortly.”

 

True to his word, seconds later the cell door opened, the large man grimacing at the creak that accompanied its movement. He strode forward quickly, stopping in front of his friend and not liking what he was seeing. Athos’ face was pale except for the two stains of red on each cheek, a sure sign of fever. He noted the wetness on the man’s face as well and placed his hands gingerly on Athos’ cheeks, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “Oh, Athos,” he murmured softly, troubled by his friend’s distress. When he’d wiped away the evidence of Athos’ sorrow, he motioned for Treville and Fouquet to help support the older man so he could put his lock-picking skills to good use once more. Within a minute, both arms were free and Athos had been lowered to sit against one wall, biting his lip against the throbbing of both arms as the blood returned while at the same time relishing the relief of finally being off his feet. Porthos’ gaze landed momentarily on the badly soaked bandage around Athos’ leg and pulled the scarf from his head, handing it to Treville to wrap around the man’s wound while he released d’Artagnan.

 

On his haunches, Porthos placed a hand on the Gascon’s back, calling his name so he wouldn’t be startled, “d’Artagnan, can you hear me, lad?” He had his face close to the boy’s ear and now bent forward lower to hear any signs of awareness that the young man might make. After waiting for several seconds, he looked up at Fouquet and shook his head. “Hold his arm and then lower it slowly once it’s free,” Porthos directed as he began work on the first lock. Fouquet carefully lowered the Gascon’s arm, the motion pulling a soft moan of pain from the young man. Porthos and Fouquet shared a quick look over the man’s back but they didn’t have time to spare and Porthos proceeded to release the boy’s other arm, while Fouquet steadied the boy, ensuring he didn’t fall over once both arms were free. “Help me lift him to his feet,” Porthos ordered, reading to take the boy’s weight.

 

“Wait, his ribs,” Athos called as Porthos shifted to lift the Gascon onto his shoulders.

 

Porthos stood still for a moment, d’Artagnan’s moans growing louder as he was steadied between the two men by his arms. Sharing a look with Treville, he shook his head at Athos, “No choice.” He completed the move, lifting the boy onto his back in one smooth move, pushing a soft cry from the young man. “Sorry, d’Artagnan, we’ll be quick,” Porthos comforted, already moving towards the cell door. Treville and Fouquet pulled Athos to his feet, each man ducking under an arm and causing Athos to wince as his sore muscles protested the action.

 

The men moved swiftly now, having already pressed their luck and recalling that it was around this same time that their last rescue attempt had been discovered. Athos was doing his best to carry some of his own weight, but his injured leg refused to hold him and he felt an overwhelming fatigue that made it difficult for him to even keep his head up, let alone anything more. Ahead, he could see Porthos moving easily despite d’Artagnan’s weight and he began to believe that they might actually succeed in getting away without anyone noticing. He revised his thoughts just moments later as the sounds of the Gascon’s distress reached his ears, the young man beginning to flail in earnest as he became more aware of his situation. “Hush, d’Artagnan, you need to be quiet now,” Porthos urged the boy softly, doing his best to calm him as his agitated movements grew in intensity.

 

d’Artagnan knew he was moving and the motion was making him nauseas as the pain of his injuries increased with every jarring step. He could tell that he was no longer bound as he had been, but his mind was too clouded to recognize what was happening to him now, and as each step brought greater clarity, he began fighting as much as his weakened body would allow, determined that his captors would not be allowed to move him from the house to somewhere his friends would be unable to find him. The result sent adrenaline flooding into his veins, momentarily increasing the strength in his limbs and making it increasingly difficult for the man holding him. A particularly clumsy but violent jerk of his body had him almost falling from his captor’s shoulders, and the man retaliated by grabbing his shoulder sharply to prevent him from falling. The action pulled a loud cry of pain from d’Artagnan’s throat before he fell limp as his overloaded system short-circuited from the pain.

 

Porthos hadn’t meant to cause the young man any more pain, but when the boy had nearly fallen, he’d had to grab wildly for the boy’s arm in order to hold onto him, and cringed at the loud cry of pain the action prompted. Steps away from the door, another sound broke the silence around them as d’Artagnan’s shout called attention to their presence. “Intruders!”

 

The Musketeers sped up their steps as much as they were able, Treville and Fouquet now practically carrying Athos as the man lolled between them. Stepping outside, they immediately spotted the three men left waiting for them, already aiming their pistols at the door to catch anyone following unaware as the others continued their dash toward the courtyard gate. Porthos ducked his head instinctively in response to the first pistol shot, knowing that it likely came from one of his brothers. More shots followed, interspersed with shouts and the pounding of booted feet as bandits poured out of the house behind them.

 

Above, Aramis’ heart had leapt at the reappearance of his friends, overriding the worry at seeing d’Artagnan and Athos unable to carry their own weights. He hadn’t heard the shout that had alerted the bandits to their presence, but could see the Musketeers below tensing as they prepared to protect their retreating brothers, and Aramis steadied his harquebus, waiting for a target to present itself. He waited until all three of his brothers had discharged their pistols before selecting a target and releasing the ball, dropping the spent harquebus immediately to grasp the next, which Sebastian was already placing into his waiting hands. The bandits surged from the house and Aramis lost count of exactly how many they faced, focused only on receiving the next primed weapon and locating his next target, determined that his friends would not be overrun by their enemies.

 

“Last one,” Sebastian stated, knowing that he would no longer be able to keep up with the speed with which the sharpshooter discharged the shots.

 

Aramis didn’t pause, simply taking the last weapon as he ordered, “Take two horses and go down to help. I’ll follow shortly.”

 

Hearing Sebastian scrambling away to do as he’d been told, Aramis lined up his last shot, this one a man who was steps away from catching up to Athos, and he squeezed the trigger, grinning grimly as the bandit fell. He crossed the space between himself and the horses swiftly, grabbing the reins of another steed after he’d swung into the saddle. He pushed the horses to travel the distance between where they’d stopped and the gate below, glad to see Sebastian already pulling Athos onto the horse in front of him, while Treville mounted the second, ordering the Musketeers to begin their retreat. Porthos caught Aramis’ eye as soon as he arrived and handed d’Artagnan into the sharpshooter’s waiting arms before pulling himself onto the second horse. “Go!” Porthos roared, already turning back help Treville and the others, ensuring that no one else was left behind.

 

Aramis hesitated for a moment before Porthos swung a heavy hand down on the rump of his horse, causing it to surge forward, Aramis struggling for a moment to keep hold of both d’Artagnan and the reins. Sebastian followed closely behind him and he grudgingly moved through the gates, stopping there to wait until the rest of the men joined them. A few long minutes passed as Aramis listened to the sounds of battle that emerged from the courtyard, catching occasional glimpses of the fighting that persisted. Then, without warning, the men on foot were running towards them and Aramis motioned for them to continue back up the hill to collect their steeds. Seconds later, Treville and Porthos emerged and the Captain repeated Porthos’ earlier order, “Go!”

 

He wasted no more time, but wheeled his horse around smoothly to re-join the others. They would head back to Jacques’ house tonight and Aramis tensed at the fear of what he would find when he finally had the chance to properly examine his friends.

* * *

Aramis and Sebastian had ridden ahead, with Porthos and Treville following closely behind them. The other four men were further back, the Captain having ordered them to slow their pace and prevent anyone from following them; it was unlikely that the bandits would rally in time to pursue them tonight, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

When they arrived at Jacques’ house, Aramis waited for Porthos to go inside and light several candles before gently lowering the still unconscious d’Artagnan into the larger man’s waiting arms. This time, he carried the boy with an arm under his knees and another at his back, not wanting to cause him any more pain by putting him over his shoulder again. Aramis slipped off his horse as soon as d’Artagnan was in the other man’s hands and followed as soon as he was confident that Treville and Sebastian would be able to handle Athos by themselves. Neither room had a bed large enough for two, nor were the rooms large enough to hold both beds, so Aramis found himself in the unfortunate position of having his injured friends in two separate spaces. Since d’Artagnan was already inside and laying on a bed, Aramis checked on him first, already having decided that he would do a cursory examination of each man in order to decide whose condition was most dire. When he arrived, Porthos had already cut the boy’s shirt off, exposing his bruised and bloody torso, the swelling around his dislocated joint causing the shoulder to appear grossly misshapen. As Aramis fixed his eyes on his patient, hands already reaching to confirm the extent of the Gascon’s wounds, Porthos exited, intending to fetch the water they’d left heating in the kitchen before they’d left.

 

Aramis was disgusted at the treatment d’Artagnan had endured at the hands of his captors, the one shoulder clearly having been out of its joint for several days and the medic bit his lip in worry, unsure of whether or not the damage could be repaired after being left for so long. The boy’s other shoulder bore a jagged hole that was still seeping sluggishly and Aramis wondered at how much blood the Gascon had actually lost, his normally olive skin significantly pale and cool to the touch. Lower, his flank was marred by ugly bruising and a particularly dark area revealed two broken ribs. The young man’s face and head also showed bruising and the remnants of a wound, which had already begun to heal, indicating its age. Scrubbing a hand through his curls, Aramis was mentally preparing a list of supplies he’d need and prioritizing the boy’s wounds; d’Artagnan was in poor shape overall, likely due to the length of his captivity, but didn’t seem to be suffering anything that would be immediately life threatening once the bleeding in his shoulder was stopped.

 

"How is he?" Porthos asked, pouring some of the hot water he carried into a basin that stood next to the clean cloths they’d prepared earlier.

 

Aramis looked up, startled at the other man’s entrance, and offered a grim smile, “We need to stop the bleeding on his shoulder and get him warm but otherwise nothing urgent. Can you clean and bandage it for now while I check on Athos?”

 

At the larger man’s nod, Aramis left and moved to the other bedroom where Athos was being stripped of his shirt and breeches, Treville looking hesitantly at the man’s braies which would also need to be removed to give access to the wound on his thigh. Sensing the man’s indecision, Aramis stepped forward, “Sebastian, I’ll need some of the hot water we readied earlier.” As soon as the man had left, Aramis turned to Treville, “He’s not modest, Captain, and they’ll need to come off.” Together, they cut the braies off, covering him afterwards with a blanket and pulling just the one side back in order to expose his leg. Aramis bent forward, lifting the limb up slightly to look for an exit wound, then cursing quietly when none was found. “The ball’s still in there,” he mumbled under his breath, calculating how many hours it had been since the man had been shot. “I’ll need my tools,” he said, distractedly, already heading toward the door to gather his supplies. He was back within a minute, grateful to see that Sebastian had delivered the hot water during his absence and he began to unroll the worn leather which held a fine knife, tweezers, a curved needle and thread. “Was he awake at all?” he asked as he worked.

 

Treville nodded absently before realizing the man would not see the action as his head was still down and focused on his task, “When we found him. I think the journey used up the last of his reserves and he passed out soon after we got him on the horse.”

 

Aramis gave a short nod, now looking up at the Captain. “d’Artagnan’s shoulder will also need needlework and his other one will need to be wrapped in cold cloths to reduce the swelling.” His face took on a look of anguish at the thought of leaving his other friend to wait while he tended to the more urgent wound. “The ball’s already been in there too long.”

 

The Captain held his hand up perceptively, understanding how torn the man before him was, with two friends needing his attention. “I think it would be best if Porthos helped you with Athos. He’s out now but if he wakes, you’ll need Porthos’ strength to hold him still. While you’re taking care of this, I can clean and stitch d’Artagnan’s wound. It probably won’t be as neat as yours, but it will get the job done.”

 

Aramis’ head dropped for a moment with relief. When he raised it again, he spoke, his words thick with gratitude, “Thank you, Captain.”

 

“I’ll send Porthos over,” Treville replied as he left the room, Aramis already pulling the cork from the strong brandy that d’Artagnan’s uncle seemed to favour.

 

“Bad?” Porthos questioned as he entered, moving to stand beside Aramis in preparation to hold Athos’ leg still.

 

Aramis sighed, “The ball’s still in there and he’s burning up with infection. I need to tend it if he’s to have any chance of keeping the leg.”

 

Porthos stood quietly as the medic cleaned as much blood and dirt away from the wound as possible before catching the larger man’s eye, letting him know that he was ready to begin. Once Porthos gripped Athos’ leg with one hand, the other on Athos’ chest, Aramis dipped the tweezers into the wound, beginning to search for the lead ball that had lodged in the muscle. Although Athos remained unconscious he reacted to the pain, his head beginning to toss at the medic’s actions. Aramis ignored the weak movement, his entire focus on finding and removing the ball from his friend’s leg as quickly as possible, confident that Porthos would keep his patient steady. A low whimper of pain escaped Athos’ lips as his breathing quickened, but still Aramis probed, digging deeper yet until he felt something solid, forcing the tweezers to grip the ball which had been made slippery with blood. The ball came out with a sickening slurp, the muscle and skin of Athos’ thigh creating suction that made the object difficult to extract.

 

Dropping the ball onto one of the discarded cloths from earlier, Aramis wiped a sleeve across his brow, removing the sweat that beaded there. He glanced briefly at Athos’ face and noted the lines of pain evident there, fearful that the man might wake soon as he continued. Sharing a glance with Porthos, the larger man gave a nod to indicate his readiness and Aramis poured a portion of water on the wound, wiping it away after with another clean cloth. Another sound of pain was heard, but Athos remained otherwise unaware. With a deep breath, Aramis plunged the tweezers once more into Athos’ wound, plucking out the threads that had been pushed inwards with the ball’s passage through both breeches and braies. Athos continued to show increasing signs of wakefulness as Aramis worked, and the medic moved as quickly as he was able while still diligently ensuring that nothing foreign remained. With a last wipe of a clean cloth, Aramis finally felt confident that everything had been removed from the wound and wiped his hands on another clean cloth before reaching for the brandy bottle.

 

He watched as Porthos leaned his weight forward, placing more of it on their patient, both men fully aware that this was the moment most likely to bring the man around. With a short nod to Porthos, Aramis tilted the bottle over Athos’ leg, the action causing the older man’s eyes to open and his back to arch, his leg jerking as he tried to pull it away from the fire the brandy had ignited.

 

The two men were unrelenting, Porthos maintaining his firm hold and immediately speaking words of comfort as Aramis continued pouring until he was satisfied that the wound was as clean as it could be. When he pulled the brandy away, sopping up the excess liquid with a cloth, Porthos released his hold and moved to the head of the bed, placing his hands on Athos’ face. The older man’s eyes were rolling around, clearly having a hard time focusing, and Porthos continued his litany of encouraging words until Athos’ breathing slowed and his eyes landed on the man above him.

 

“There, you with me now?” Porthos asked, hands still on Athos’ cheeks.

 

Athos swallowed slowly and Aramis was there with a cup of water, waiting until Porthos changed his hold to lift the older man’s head up so he wouldn’t choke. They helped Athos drink, Porthos laying him down again when they were done. Athos’ eyes drifted between his two friends as he licked his lips, “d’Artagnan?” he breathed out.

 

Aramis placed a hand on his friend’s chest, “Alive and in the other room.” Athos exhaled slowly and closed his eyes at the news, causing both his friends to smile. “Athos, open your eyes for us. I need you aware for a little while longer before you sleep,” the medic coaxed. Athos wearily complied, although it was obvious that he would not be able to stay awake much longer. “I removed the ball from your thigh but it’s already infected. It needs some of my needlework and then I’m going to make a poultice to help with the infection. Would you like something for the pain before I continue?”

 

Athos’ blinked heavily at his friend and it became apparent that the man was losing his battle to stay awake. With a soft smile on his lips, Aramis changed tact, “Sleep now, Athos, we’ll wake you in a little while to eat and drink something.”

 

Within moments, their patient was asleep and Porthos fondly brushed his friend’s damp hair away from his face. “I don’t think he’ll give us any more trouble tonight.”

 

Aramis nodded in agreement, picking up his needle and thread so he could close the wound. Porthos’ prediction had proven correct and Athos had stayed quiet as Aramis had stitched and Porthos wiped the man’s face with a clean, damp cloth. Rinsing his hands in the now cooling basin of water, Porthos motioned with his head to the medic’s bag of supplies, “Do you have what you need for the poultice?”

 

“Enough for one, maybe two,” Aramis considered. “I’ll need to find more herbs tomorrow if the fever persists.” Moving to pull out the supplies he’d need, he continued, “We’ll need to wake him in a couple of hours, make sure he drinks and get some broth into him at the very least. I can’t imagine that they fed them and he’ll need his strength to fight off the infection.”

 

Expertly combining the herbs he needed and crushing them with a mortar and pestle, he added a quantity of water until a thick paste resulted, which he then added to a portion of linen. When the poultice was ready, he placed it across the stitches he’d placed, adding another bandage on top so that it stayed in place. When he’d finished, both men were visibly fatigued and Porthos seemed uninterested in moving from the chair he now occupied.

 

Standing, Aramis looked at him in amusement, “I take it you’ll be staying here while I check on our youngest?”

 

Porthos gave an affirmative grunt, already leaning back and crossing his arms, preparing to get some sleep. “Let me know how he’s doing when you get back. I’ll stay here in case Athos needs anything.”

 

Aramis smiled as Porthos closed his eyes before leaving the room to see how the Captain had fared with the Gascon. He was pleased to find that d’Artagnan had been cleaned up, the last traces of dirt and blood having been washed away, and clean, white bandages covering both shoulders. Treville sat in a chair next to the young man’s bed and Aramis sat across from him, on the other side. “How is he?”  

 

“The wound on his shoulder was nasty and I’d guess that whoever inflicted it twisted the knife before they pulled it out, but fortunately it wasn’t too deep; it’s been cleaned and stitched. I’ve been using cold compresses on his other shoulder to try and bring down the swelling but I’m guessing it may take another day before it’s at a point where we can put the arm back into the joint. I’ve cleaned and wrapped his wrists which were both torn from the shackles, but thought I’d leave his ribs until he wakes.”

 

Aramis nodded thoughtfully at his Captain’s careful treatment of the young man, approving of everything he’d done. He placed a hand on the Gascon’s brow, frowning at the cool skin he found there. “Has he woken at all?” His frown deepened at Treville’s head shake, making a mental note to keep a close eye on the boy’s temperature. “No fever, that’s one blessing, but he’s far too thin. We’ll have to strap both arms as well, but probably best to wait until he wakes considering he’s been bound for the last several days.”

 

Treville nodded once more, understanding fully how a soldier might react to finding both arms restrained, especially if not fully aware of their surroundings or confused because of injury. “Athos?” he asked, needing to know how his lieutenant was faring.

 

“The ball is out and I’ve closed the wound. The greatest concern now is infection and I’ve made a poultice to help draw it out. I still need to tend to his wrists, but he should be fine as long as his fever breaks.” Aramis paused to take a deep breath, “The ball was lodged against the bone.” Treville’s eyes widened at that statement, knowing well that the shot could have caused additional damage. “The bone isn’t broken but may be cracked; I really won’t know until he’s more aware and I can properly assess his pain.”

 

“This could delay our return to Paris,” the Captain stated knowingly, understanding that if the bone had been affected, they would need to wait longer for the man to start healing before they could travel.

 

Aramis gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement. “If you’ll give me a little while longer, I’ll tend to Athos’ wrists and then I’ll come back and relieve you. I know you must be tired.”

 

Treville smiled as he said, “Aramis, I am more than capable of caring for an injured man. Besides, it sounds like Athos needs you and I can always ask one of the others to sit with d’Artagnan when I grow weary. Go, take care of him, and call one of us if you need help.” He could see the medic’s reluctance, but the reality was that he could not be in two places at once; with a grateful smile, he nodded and left.

 

Reaching a hand forward, the Captain checked the Gascon’s temperature, confirming that the boy was still chilled and he pulled the blanket up to the young man’s chin. “You need to get better, d’Artagnan, before Aramis makes himself sick running between you and Athos.” Satisfied that he’d done all he could for now, Treville mimicked Porthos’ earlier position and closed his eyes, confident that he’d awake if the boy stirred.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where have you gone, brothers?” he thought to himself, shuddering on a shallow inhale as a tear rolled down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely reactions to the rescue and brotherly moments in the last chapter. Another longer chapter for you ahead!

Aramis had carefully cleaned both of Athos’ wrists and wrapped them in clean linen, resting his friend’s arms at his side when he was done. Athos was clearly uncomfortable, the infection in his leg driving his fever up, and Aramis continuously wiped at his friend’s face, neck and upper body in an effort to cool him. He’d let Porthos sleep since he himself had slept most of the previous day, and when the larger man woke a few hours before dawn, Aramis provided him with an update on both their injured comrades.

 

“d’Artagnan hasn’t woken yet but he seems to be resting relatively easily. I made up a pain draught for when he wakes, but for now we may as well let him be,” Aramis explained, pulling Athos’ blanket down a few inches lower.

 

“And Athos?” Porthos asked, already guessing at what his friend would say.

 

“His body burns with fever and so far nothing I’ve done has made any difference,” Aramis admitted tiredly.

 

“What about the poultice?” Porthos questioned.

 

“Still working, but I’ll need to replace it in the morning,” the medic replied.

 

Aramis slumped with fatigue and worry and Porthos knew that, if left to his own devices, the man would wear himself out caring for his friends. “How ‘bout you get some sleep then. I’ll wake you in the morning so you can change the poultice and then you can go find more of the herbs you’ll need.” Aramis was loathe to close his eyes, an irrational fear tugging at his mind, suggesting that if he rested his friend’s condition would worsen, but one look at Porthos’ face had him nodding in agreement; he knew the larger man would never hesitate to wake him if he was needed.

 

One of the others had brought extra blankets in earlier and Aramis laid one down on the floor now, pulling a second over his body as he rested his weary body; seconds later he was asleep. Porthos took over tending to the older man, once more wetting the cloth that Aramis had placed on their friend’s brow, before looking up at a quiet hiss from the door. Treville stood there and motioned with his head for Porthos to join him outside and, with a last look confirming that Athos would be alright for a couple minutes, he rose and followed the other man into the hallway.

 

“How are they?” Treville asked, pitching his voice low so neither of the two sleeping men would be disturbed.

 

“Athos is still burnin’ up and I just got Aramis to lay down. He’ll need to make another poultice and collect more herbs in the morning,” Porthos advised him. “What about the boy?”

 

“He’s been asleep this whole time; didn’t even wake when I sewed him up. I’m going to try rousing him soon if he doesn’t come around on his own,” the Captain replied. “I’ve had some broth made that I’ll try to get into him and when breakfast is ready, I expect both you and Aramis to eat.” Treville’s tone was empathetic but firm, and Porthos gave a soft nod in acknowledgement of the command. “I’ll let you get back, but don’t think that the two of you have to manage Athos’ care on your own; let me know if you need help.”

 

“We will, thank you, Captain,” Porthos murmured, although Treville was certain that no request for assistance would be forthcoming.

 

He’d left Fouquet sitting with d’Artagnan so he could get a few hours’ rest and he now nodded at the man as he re-entered the room, letting him know that he would once more take over. When they were alone, Treville leaned forward, placing a hand on the Gascon’s arm, noting that there were very few spots on the boy’s upper body that could be touched without inflicting pain. “d’Artagnan, it’s time for you to wake up.” His words had no effect, as he’d expected, so he wet a cloth and began to wipe it across the young man’s face and neck. “d’Artagnan, I need you awake now so you can tell me how you’re feeling,” he called again as the Gascon began shifting weakly, trying to escape the cool cloth he was wielding. “Come now, boy, open your eyes for me.”

 

Perhaps it was the use of the term “boy” that motivated d’Artagnan to open his eyes, but whatever the reason, Treville was grateful when a few seconds later the Gascon groaned and then his eyes fluttered open. It took several moments before he was able to focus and when he did, his brow furrowed in confusion, “C’ptain?”

 

“It’s good to have you back, d’Artagnan,” Treville said, already reaching for a cup of water. With one hand behind the young man’s head, he lifted it just enough so d’Artagnan could drink without choking, replacing it gently on the pillow when he’d finished. “How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan was quiet for nearly a minute as he considered the various aches that were now vying for his attention. His shoulders were definitely the worst, the individual injuries there painful in and of themselves, but when combined with the strained muscles caused by days of having his arms restrained behind him, they throbbed with an agony that could only be described as exquisite. Next were his ribs, sending a sharp stab of pain through his flank with every stuttering inhale that pushed against his broken bones. “I feel…awful,” the Gascon finally whispered, even the act of talking wearing him out.

 

The honest answer brought a gentle smile to the Captain’s lips, pleased that d’Artagnan had not tried to disguise how poorly he was feeling. “Then you’re in luck,” Treville answered, reaching now for the pain draught that Aramis had left. “Aramis made this for you earlier, expecting that you’d be somewhat _uncomfortable_.”

 

d’Artagnan latched onto the man’s words, ignoring the cup that Treville held, his eyes darting around the room to realize what was missing. “Aramis! Are the others alright? What happened?” The young man had moved quickly from lethargic to agitated and the Captain placed a restraining hand on the boy’s chest to keep him from trying to sit up.

 

“Calm yourself, d’Artagnan, everyone is alive,” he began, knowing he’d need to tread carefully as he explained the extent of Athos’ injuries. “Do you remember Athos being captured?” The Gascon bit his lip as he thought back, giving a short nod when the memory of Athos sharing his cell returned. “He was shot in the leg during the first rescue attempt.” This drew a confused look followed by a slow nod from the young man, prompting him to continue. “The ball was still in his thigh and the wound became infected. Aramis has tended it but he’s still fevered. He and Porthos are with Athos in the other room.”

 

Treville watched the Gascon carefully, hand still on the boy’s chest, gauging the young man’s reaction by the beat of his heart. Finally, d’Artagnan spoke, “He’ll be alright?”

 

The Captain nodded, “The biggest concern now is the fever. Once that breaks, he should recover well.”

 

The young man slumped back, the tension from before draining out of him as quickly as it had appeared, his limbs falling slack in relief. He had no memory of Athos being injured, either during the rescue attempt or during their time in the Baron’s prison. Sadly, his memory of the past couple of days had more than a few gaps in it, his body having been weakened by his poor treatment and his mind having withdrawn as a way of blocking out the pain. He did remember Athos being with him, although he couldn’t recall much of their time together. All that stood out were the conflicting feelings of safety and disillusionment, two emotions that seemed so at odds with each other that he questioned their validity. He had no memory beyond the Baron’s last visit, when he’d been stabbed, and now looked to his Captain to fill in the missing pieces. “What happened, exactly?” the Gascon looked self-consciously down at his lap. “I really don’t remember much after the first couple of days in the Baron’s prison.”

 

Treville gave him a supportive smile as he explained, “After the three of them returned from their mission, they came to me to inquire about your whereabouts. I got the feeling that they were quite disappointed not to have accompanied you.” He paused, waiting to see what reaction his words would garner, but d’Artagnan stayed silent, still looking downwards. “They set out immediately and I followed a day later, sensing that you might need help. By the time I arrived, you and Athos were both in the Baron’s hands so we made plans to rescue you last night. As you can tell, we were successful and you’ve been asleep most of the night.”

 

He stopped, not wanting to go into great detail, but waiting instead to see what questions the Gascon would have for him. “What of the Baron and his men?”

 

“It was not our intention to engage them directly last night, but we did so anyway when the alarm was sounded. The Baron was one of the casualties and I would expect that what few men remained alive, will have scattered,” Treville assured him.

 

d’Artagnan looked up and gave a small nod, unable to hide the grimace that the action provoked. “You are in pain,” the Captain stated. “Both of your shoulders are hurt and Aramis believes that the muscles may be damaged from the position you were forced to maintain. If we strap your arms, you’re likely to find some relief from the pain.”

 

“No,” the young man protested at once. Seeing the startled reaction on Treville’s face, he explained. “After what happened, I don’t like the idea of having both arms bound.” d’Artagnan’s eyes pooled with desperation at the thought of being helpless once more and the older man found himself acquiescing, unwilling to be the cause of the boy’s anguish.

 

“Very well, how about we strap the one that’s dislocated, but we’ll leave the other free for now?” Treville compromised. The Gascon’s relief was almost palpable and the Captain knew he’d done the right thing. “We’ll bind your ribs as well before we take care of that arm. Would you like to try some broth first?”

 

d’Artagnan had little appetite, the ache from his injuries unrelenting, but he felt uncomfortable turning down the Captain’s offer so he agreed to try. Treville gave him an encouraging smile as he reached first for some extra pillows, which he placed behind the young man’s back, and then gathered the waiting cup from the small table next to him. As he brought it closer, d’Artagnan attempted to reach for it, causing his left hand to lift momentarily from his side before falling back to the mattress, pulling a moan of pain from his throat. He stared down at the traitorous limb as if willing it to move would make it so, embarrassed to be showing such weakness in front of his commanding officer.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Treville’s hand was on his arm now, “this was to be expected. Your muscles have been overtaxed for far too long and they will be sore and weak for a time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” The Gascon seemed unconvinced and Treville decided it would be best to simply forge ahead and ignore the boy’s discomfort, bringing the cup to his mouth and waiting for him to open. It took a second or two, but then the Gascon parted his lips, taking his first sip of the warm broth. He managed a couple of swallows before turning his head to the side, Treville reading the signs of the young man’s distress as his face incredibly turned another shade paler. “That’s fine, d’Artagnan,” he praised, “we’ll try again later. I’m going to get one of the others to help me so we can strap your arm and ribs.” In reality there was little reason to seek assistance, but the Captain wanted to give the boy a few minutes to compose himself and to calm his rebelling stomach.

 

d’Artagnan gratefully watched the Captain leave, exhaling slowly as he closed his eyes and focused on settling his belly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten but the few sips he’d had made his stomach roil uncomfortably and he really didn’t want to humiliate himself further by being sick. The fact that he couldn’t lift a hand to help himself had further increased his misery and he was mortified to think that he’d be reliant on others’ help until his injuries healed. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if he were in the care of his closest friends, but he hadn’t even seen the men since they’d parted ways in Paris. Perhaps that was not wholly accurate, but he’d been nearly insensible in the Baron’s cell so he didn’t think the time spent with Athos should count. Being without them while convalescing was doubly strange, bringing back the feelings of abandonment that he’d struggled with on his way to Gascony as he truly couldn’t remember a time since their acquaintance when he’d been hurt and without their company. It was almost an unspoken promise between them – when one is sick or injured, the others will remain to care, cajole and otherwise comfort him until he is hale and hearty once more.

 

But Athos was wounded as well and now suffered a fever. d’Artagnan scolded himself at his selfish thoughts; Athos’ need was clearly greater and Aramis and Porthos would take care of him until he was well. That’s what the inseparables did, after all. The thought raised another pang of doubt – did that mean that four were once more three? _No!_ d’Artagnan raged at himself, disgusted at the self-centredness of his thoughts. How could he sit here worrying about his friends’ absence when Athos was fighting for his life in the room next door? Surely they would be by his side if they were able and would welcome him once more into their fold once Athos’ future was less uncertain. The young man found himself biting his lip, hand twitching by his side as he tried time and again to curl his fingers into a fist, failing miserably as strained muscles refused to obey while his thoughts oscillated between one extreme and the next.    

 

“d’Artagnan?” Treville led the way into the room, Thierry following behind him. “Are you alright?” When he’d left, the Gascon looked worn and clearly aching from his wounds, but otherwise stable enough to leave alone for a few minutes. Now, his hand lay twitching, he was biting at his lip and his face was screwed up with what the Captain could only guess was extreme pain.

 

The other men’s entrance surprised d’Artagnan, and he jumped minutely at the older man’s words, causing his injuries to flare sharply. He gasped at the raw ache that coursed through him, losing his ability to keep it under control, and his faced screwed up as he battled to manage the pain. “d’Artagnan.” Treville was beside him now, a hand on his as he murmured soft words of comfort until the Gascon could open his eyes again.

 

“M’alright now,” the young man breathed out, not trusting his voice not to betray the intensity of the pain that still gripped him.

 

Treville hummed disbelievingly but released his hand, motioning to Thierry to pass him the half-full cup that contained Aramis’ draught. Pressing it to the Gascon’s lips, he ordered, “Drink, all of it.” His tone left no room for argument and d’Artagnan swallowed obediently, recognizing the bitter taste from the last time he’d been hurt. After that, things seemed to turn soft and fuzzy and he vaguely remembered the Captain and Thierry efficiently binding his ribs and right arm to stabilize the broken bones and still swollen joint. By the time they’d finished, d’Artagnan was barely conscious and, as soon as Treville removed the extra pillows from behind him, he drifted off, grateful for the painlessness of sleep.

* * *

Morning came far too early for the Musketeers, half of their group having gotten a few hours’ sleep in the barn before rising at dawn to clean weapons, take care of the horses and make food for the ones inside. One could imagine that those inside the farmhouse were the fortunate ones, having the comfort of four walls and proper furniture through the night, but they all knew the truth of it; those inside had the unpleasant task of caring for their wounded, which resulted in hours of worry interspersed with little actual rest.

 

Porthos had grudgingly woken Aramis at dawn as he’d promised, although the dark smudges under both of the healer’s eyes had him second-guessing the decision until he received a dark glare from his friend. “Don’t, Porthos, we both know this is necessary and I’ll sleep once he’s out of danger.” The subject of their discussion was their lieutenant who still tossed feverishly, nonsensical words occasionally punctuating his delirium as his weakened body struggled against the infection that still ravaged him. Aramis had wearily climbed to his feet and staggered to the chair at his friend’s bedside, his hand automatically reaching for Athos’ brow where he encountered such fierce heat that he pulled his hand away quickly, as if scalded. Unwinding and peeling back the poultice on his friend’s leg revealed a red and sore-looking wound, streaks of red standing out in stark contrast to the white of his skin, marking the path of the infection that poisoned him. Removing the soiled bandage, Aramis gratefully took the clean one that Porthos handed him and placed it gently over the wound before standing to make a fresh poultice, achingly aware that he would have to leave his ailing friend’s side in order to search the surrounding forest for the additional items he’d need for later in the day. When he’d done all he could and Athos’ leg had been re-bandaged, he accepted Porthos’ strong grip, allowing the larger man to pull him to his feet before looking around the room as if in a daze.

 

Porthos was just as fatigued but knew that he had the advantage of not being directly responsible for his friends’ lives, the decisions that Aramis made regarding their care always weighing heavily on the man, making him appear ten years’ older. Gently, he helped Aramis into his boots and doublet, handing the man his weapons belt and satchel, which he knew would be used to carry the plants he collected in the forest. Taking a quick look over his shoulder at Athos, Porthos grasped Aramis’ upper arm, guiding him out of the room to seat him at the dining table, where he handed his charge over to Rideau, one of the other Musketeers who’d accompanied Treville and aided in their rescue efforts.

 

Catching Rideau’s eye, Porthos nodded at the still quiet healer as he sat his friend down in a chair at the table. Comprehending Porthos’ request, Rideau left quickly, returning a minute later with food and drink for both men. Porthos nodded in thanks to the man and leaned forward to speak softly to his friend. “Aramis, the Captain ordered us to eat this morning and when you’re done,” his gaze shifted to Rideau, “Rideau will go with you to find what you need for that poultice. I’m going to take my food back and sit with Athos so there’s no need for you to worry while you’re gone.”

 

Aramis looked at the food in front of him and for a moment Porthos thought he might push it away, but seconds later was pleased to see the medic sigh and nod, “Alright, Porthos, don’t worry, I’ll eat. Go back and check on Athos and I’ll be back as soon as I’ve found everything.” The large man smiled and squeezed Aramis’ shoulder, even as the latter brought the first bite of food to his mouth, Porthos picking up his own breakfast and sharing one last glance with Rideau who assured him again with another tilt of his head.

 

Satisfied that Aramis would eat and have someone by his side while distracted both by Athos’ condition and his search for the plants he’d need, Porthos made his way back, noting as he passed the second bedroom that the occupants were quiet and likely asleep. He settled himself at Athos’ side, wiping away the sheen of sweat that once more covered the man’s skin and tamed his normally wild locks. Growing up in the Court, Porthos had watched many fight fevers and, like many others, had seen more than a few succumb. Each time once of them was hurt, infection was always cause for concern, and Porthos laid a hand gently over his friend’s bandaged wrist, speaking lowly although he doubted the man was aware enough to hear, “Fight, Athos, you must be strong now. Don’t let that bastard Baron have this last victory.” Leaving the cool cloth on the man’s brow and his hand on Athos’ wrist, Porthos reached for his food with the other, forcing himself to eat even though his stomach churned with fear for the man lying in front of him.  

 

Rideau had been true to his word and had bullied Aramis into eating, threatening to tell Porthos if he didn’t make a good meal. He still pushed his plate away half-full, but it was better than nothing. It took over an hour for the healer to find the plants he needed for the poultice and every minute away made him itch with anxiety at being away from his very ill friend. When they returned to the farmhouse, Aramis dismounted swiftly, grabbing his bag of supplies and leaving the care of the horses to Rideau as he strode into the house, eager to see if Athos’ condition had changed.

 

“Aramis,” Treville called as the man passed by the other room, halting him in his tracks and bringing him back to the doorway. Peering in, the Captain motioned his head toward the bed where d’Artagnan sat, still far too pale and gaunt, but eyes open and aware.

 

Aramis’ face broke into a soft grin as he slowly walked to the boy’s bed, “d’Artagnan, it’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon offered a tentative smile in return, the space between them laced with awkwardness despite the experiences they’d shared. The young man could feel Aramis’ hesitancy and couldn’t help reacting to it, assuming that things would be strained between them after the way in which they’d left things in Paris. “I’m fine, Aramis,” he answered politely. “How’s Athos?”

 

The medic’s grin slipped at the question and told d’Artagnan far more that words could. “He’s still fevered. I’ve been out this morning collecting herbs for a poultice, which should help.” He lifted the bag slightly in his hand as if to emphasize his point but then ran out of words, his need to go check on the older man thwarting his normally silver tongue.

 

Sensing his friend’s discomfort, the Gascon replied, “I’m sure the poultice will help. I’ll let you go then.” He received a grateful look in response and watched as Aramis hurried from the room, left once more in the Captain’s company. Treville was a good man who treated his men fairly and with compassion, but d’Artagnan couldn’t help but be uncomfortable in his presence; this was still his commanding officer, after all, and they had little in common beyond the missions that the Gascon participated in. Again, d’Artagnan cursed the circumstances that had placed him in such a vulnerable state, needing someone to help with even his most basic needs, and wished that Treville had at least relegated his care into the hands of one of the others. Granted, he didn’t know the other men with them very well either, typically completing missions with the inseparables, but he couldn’t help but think that it would be easier to ask for help from someone who was just another soldier like himself.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” the Captain repeated Aramis’ earlier question, prompting d’Artagnan to realize that he’d fallen silent with Aramis’ departure.

 

“I’m fine, sir, just tired.” It was not an outright lie as his body had been unnaturally fatigued since he’d awoken in his uncle’s farmhouse, but he’d only been awake for a short while and was not yet ready to sleep again. Yet, the prospect of closing his eyes seemed far more attractive than the idea of conversing with his Captain or, worse yet, having the man feed him or otherwise take care of him. “I think I’d just like to rest if that’s alright,” d’Artagnan explained.

 

The Captain seemed hesitant and perhaps he even had some inkling of what bothered the young man, but he nodded in acceptance before standing. “I need to check on the others. Do you need anything before I go? Do you want someone else to come sit with you?”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head to both questions, “No, thank you. I’m just going to sleep; there’s no need for anyone else to be here with me.”

 

Treville removed the extra pillows from behind the boy’s back before helping him lay back, pulling the blanket up to cover his chest while d’Artagnan closed his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that he’d just been tucked in. “Sleep well,” the Captain said before leaving the room.

 

d’Artagnan opened his eyes to find the room blessedly empty, finally alone with his thoughts and able to drop the pretence that everything was fine. Things were far from alright and he was shocked at the emptiness he felt at being apart from his brothers. Aramis’ grin at seeing him had warmed him immensely and for a few moments he’d been able to believe that everything was well between them, but then he’d felt it, the strange sensation that reminded him more of a stilted conversation between strangers rather than friends, and the feelings of warmth turned cold. He’d seen how anxious Aramis had been to leave and, while he reasoned that it was due to Athos’ fevered state, he wondered if that was all there was to it. He knew that Aramis was a loyal friend and dedicated healer, the intensity of his focus almost frightening when one of them was injured or sick, but a part of him couldn’t help feeling dismayed that the man hadn’t even stopped to look over his wounds before rushing away. The thought sent another chill through him and he shivered involuntarily, doing his best to shift his left arm in order to pull the blanket up higher, but the limb still trembled and refused his commands. The failed attempt drew a sigh of frustration from him as he pushed his head angrily into his pillow, eyes slipping closed as they filled with tears, which he refused to allow to fall. “Where have you gone, brothers?” he thought to himself, shuddering on a shallow inhale as a tear rolled down his cheek.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Porthos' grin widened as he saw the young man’s eyes light up at their presence, “it’s good to see you awake. How’re you feelin’?” Both men now stood at the boy’s bedside, looking down at him expectantly, Aramis’ eyes ghosting over both bandaged shoulders and the young man’s sharp features, the lines of his face and torso hardened by the weight he’d lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter and to those guests who've commented and who I can't reply to personally. I don't think tissues will be needed for this next one. Enjoy!

Captain Treville had spent an hour seeing to things with his other men, ensuring that they were taking turns sleeping as well as keeping watch, in addition to sharing the tasks needed to keep their group and the horses fed. They hadn’t prepared for a prolonged stay, expecting to be able to restock their provisions in Gascony before returning home, and it was fortunate that d’Artagnan’s uncle had left them enough to carry them through for several more days. The state of the two injured men weighed heavily on the man’s mind and he knew that he might need to make a decision soon if Athos, especially, didn’t start to improve.  He’d received special dispensation from the King to pursue his men to Gascony since it was unusual for him to travel anywhere other than in the protection of the King or to command larger forces in the case of a full-scale battle. Given the length of the journey awaiting them, and the likelihood of having to travel far more slowly with their injured, he knew that they only had two or three days at most before needing to depart.

 

It was with these thoughts that Treville re-entered the small house, nodding to Thierry who was currently on kitchen duty, and then passing by the room that d’Artagnan occupied, glad to see the boy still resting quietly. The second room was a chilling counterpoint to the rest of the house, the atmosphere tense and thick with layer upon layer of fear and worry. Aramis and Porthos sat on either side of the bed in which Athos lay, the wounded man’s condition evident by the tattered state of his friends who looked like they could be toppled by a stiff wind. The focus of their attention was oblivious to their concerned gazes, eyes occasionally rolling beneath closed lids and breaths coming in small, shallows pants through cracked and parted lips.

 

Porthos, whose chair faced the door, was the first to notice the Captain’s presence and acknowledged the man with a nod. Treville took the action as an invitation to enter, moving to stand next to Aramis whose gaze never shifted from their sick friend. “Any change?” Treville asked softly, anything louder seeming out of place with the sombre mood that gripped the room.

 

Porthos’ eyes darted to Aramis’, who seemed unwilling to reply, and he did his best to try to lighten things, “You know how ‘e is Captain, has to do everything the hard way and in ‘is own time.”

 

While Treville appreciated the man’s attempt to sound encouraging, his goal right now was an accurate depiction of his lieutenant’s health. “Aramis?” he questioned.

 

Aramis shook his head slowly before speaking, “I pray that Porthos is correct, Captain. Thus far the infection has shown no signs of improvement and this fever holds him firmly in its grasp. I don’t know…’ he trailed off, searching for the words, “…I fear this may be beyond my skills.” The anguish on the man’s face spoke clearly of the direness of the situation and, while Aramis was no physician, Treville was doubtful that having one on hand would produce any further solutions other than a suggestion to bleed the sick man.   

 

“Aramis, your skills are finer than most physician’s I’ve met and I’ve no doubt that you’re doing everything possible.” The rest remained unspoken although they were all wondering, _what if it’s not enough?_ Clearing his throat, Treville went on, “We have two, maybe three days at the outside before we have to leave. Do you believe he’ll be fit to travel?”

 

“That’s not fair, Captain,” stated a suddenly outraged Porthos, knowing that the man had asked an impossible question.

 

Aramis’ reaction was calmer, but no less challenging in the face of Treville’s words, “It is impossible to say right now, however Porthos and I will stay until he is able to leave.”

 

Treville nodded, having expected nothing else, “I won’t be deciding anything yet, but it may well come to that. If it does, I’ll leave a couple men with you until you’re able to follow.” It was not much, but he hoped the two would see it as the peace offering it was meant to be, understanding that it was duty not a lack of sympathy that was forcing him to ask. He watched as the two shared a look, silently communicating he knew not what, and then their faces relaxed, Porthos murmuring a quiet word of thanks. Satisfied that he’d been forgiven for his earlier comment, he said, “You need to take a break. There’s food in the kitchen and the men have a space set up in the barn where you can sleep. I don’t want to see you back here for at least four hours. And,” he barreled on, not allowing either man to interrupt, but softening his tone once more, “I’ll wake you if anything changes.”

 

Neither man liked the idea of being apart from their leader but nor could they argue that they weren’t dead on their feet. The few hours of broken sleep they’d had did little to combat the fatigue that made their limbs heavy and their eyes gritty and red. Both men had been pushing their limits since their first failed rescue attempt and it wouldn’t be much longer before their bodies simply ceased functioning altogether, taking the decision to rest from their hands. Aramis steeled his gaze as he replied, “We’ll both go eat but I’ll be sleeping on the floor in here. That way, I’ll be close if you need me.”

 

The Captain saw Porthos nodding in agreement with his friend’s words and sighed in frustration at their stubbornness. He gave a short nod in return and watched the two leave, seemingly now in a hurry to follow his orders to eat so they might rest sooner and be awake to care for Athos once more. Treville took Aramis’ vacant seat and used the cloth and water they’d left behind to wipe the persistent sheen of sweat from his patient’s brow, hoping that the man would be improved by the time he had to wake the man’s friends.

 

Neither Aramis or Porthos were happy about having had their position at Athos’ bedside usurped by the Captain, but both recognized that fevers of this sort could easily last for several days and they needed to keep up their strength if they were to continue caring for their friend; besides, they would both admit that it was unlikely they could be convinced to leave the man in anyone else’s care, except probably d’Artagnan. The thought struck them both as they were reminded of their fourth, their reason for being in Gascony in the first place and, as they passed the doorway of the second room, Aramis immediately felt guilty at not having checked the boy’s wounds earlier. Peering in they could see the young man sleeping and decided to leave him be until after they’d eaten.

 

After a quick meal, courtesy of Thierry, chased down by several glasses of brandy, they felt more relaxed and ready to sleep once they’d checked a last time on their friend. As they headed back to Athos’ room, they paused again at the doorway to d’Artagnan’s, this time finding the young man’s eyes open even though he was still lying flat on his back. Not wanting to startle the young man, Porthos cleared his throat as he entered, plastering a grin on his face when the Gascon’s head rolled so he could see who had entered.

 

“Hey,” Porthos' grin widened as he saw the young man’s eyes light up at their presence, “it’s good to see you awake. How’re you feelin’?” Both men now stood at the boy’s bedside, looking down at him expectantly, Aramis’ eyes ghosting over both bandaged shoulders and the young man’s sharp features, the lines of his face and torso hardened by the weight he’d lost.

 

Not giving d’Artagnan the opportunity to reply, Aramis pushed his way closer to the bed, intent on getting a closer look at the young man’s injuries but the suddenly skittish look on the Gascon’s face, accompanied by a reflexive jerk to move away from the hand that reached toward him had the healer halting his hand in mid-air. “It’s alright, d’Artagnan” Aramis soothed, a slightly hurt look on his face, “I just want to make sure your wound is healing well and see if we can put your shoulder back into place.”

 

Silence reigned for several seconds, confusing both men as they watched their young friend seemingly consider Aramis’ words. Having reached a decision, d’Artagnan spoke, “Help me sit up first?” With a glance to Aramis to confirm that it would be alright, Porthos gently eased the boy’s shoulders upwards, placing the extra pillows behind him before helping him to lay back again.

 

Aramis met the Gascon’s eyes as he again reached a hand forward, waiting until he’d received a nod from the young man to proceed. As the medic unwrapped the bandage from d’Artagnan’s left shoulder, Porthos leaned against the wall near the head of the bed, “So, you never answered my question. How’re you feelin’?”

 

d’Artagnan offered a short nod, biting down on a gasp of pain as Aramis prodded gently at the stitches that had closed the knife wound. Taking a shallow breath, he replied, “Fine. How’s Athos?”

 

Porthos frowned, seeing with his own eyes that while he was certainly in better shape than when he’d last laid eyes on the boy, the young man was still a long way from fine. Although, to be fair, he was likely as worried as they were about Athos and probably frustrated at not having been able to see the man since the rescue. Forcing a small smile, he shrugged, “You know Athos, has to do everything the hard way. Still fevered but I’m sure it’ll pass soon.” He meant the words to be encouraging, not wanting the young man to worry, but they seemed to have the opposite effect as he saw a shadow pass across the young man’s face, gone so quickly that he almost thought he’d imagined it.

 

Aramis had finished with the knife wound, covering it with the salve he’d given the Captain earlier and which still sat on the table, before replacing the bandage. Now he pressed gently at the young man’s swollen shoulder joint, trying to determine whether it had reduced sufficiently to allow the arm to be relocated. The examination was clearly painful for the Gascon as his breaths quickened with the ache that Aramis’ fingers reignited. “You need to be more diligent about using cold cloths on this, d’Artagnan,” the medic stated seriously as he leaned back. “If we don’t put your arm back soon it could cause permanent damage.”

 

d’Artagnan clamped his jaw shut on the angry words that threatened to escape, his frustration at his infirmities compounded by the throbbing that his friend’s examination had reawakened. “d’Artagnan, did you hear what I said?” Aramis was now frowning at him and, for a moment the young man felt like a small child who was being scolded by his father.

 

Taking as deep a breath as his ribs would allow, the Gascon reluctantly admitted, “I can’t.” Both men looked at him, not understanding what he meant. Sighing, he tried again, “I can’t grip anything yet.”

 

Understanding dawned and Aramis pulled the young man’s blanket down further, exposing his free left hand. Lifting the arm, he placed his fingers into the boy’s palm, ordering, “Squeeze.” d’Artagnan’s fingers twitched reflexively and he winced as he tried to close them, but it was obvious that he would not be able to accomplish the task for several more days. Setting the boy’s hand down and pulling the blanket up once more, Aramis apologized, “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan, I didn’t realize it was this bad. Porthos…” But the large man was already moving to get cold water from the well, anticipating the medic’s request.

 

The Gascon looked down at his lap as he mumbled a reply, “S’alright, you’ve been busy.” He tried not to sound like a petulant child, but he could not help feeling neglected at the fact that Aramis had not been by to check on him sooner. Aramis looked at him sharply at the tone that belied the young man’s words, but Porthos was back, bustling forward quickly with the bucket of cool water.

 

“Here, this should do the trick,” he said as he poured some of the water into a nearby basin. Aramis nodded his thanks, immediately wetting a cloth and wringing it out before placing it onto the swollen joint. d’Artagnan couldn’t help but gasp at the icy sensation that immediately ratcheted up his pain, before beginning to ease. “We should get back,” Porthos reminded Aramis as the young man relaxed after the initial shock of the cold cloth.

 

Aramis stood hesitantly, wavering with his desire to care for both friends, but reason dictating that d’Artagnan would be fine while Athos’ future was still uncertain. “I’ll make sure one of the others replaces that regularly,” he said, waving toward the wet bandage. “If we’re diligent, we should be able to fix that shoulder by tonight.”

 

“You need anything before we go?” Porthos asked.

 

“No, it’s fine, really. Just make sure Athos gets better,” the Gascon replied, swallowing at the emotions that were threatening to erupt.

 

Although for different reasons, they all seemed eager to part ways, d’Artagnan still unsure of where he stood with the two men, while Aramis and Porthos were distracted by thoughts of their ailing friend in the other room. d’Artagnan mustered a smile as he repeated, “Go on, Athos needs you.”

 

The two Musketeers turned to leave, Porthos throwing back over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself, lad.” Certain it was not meant as such, the comment seemed to have a finality about it that made the Gascon shiver and he forced the smile to remain in place as he waited for his friends to leave. When they were gone, he breathed a sigh of relief, saddened that he’d actually reached a point where he was reluctant to be in his brothers’ company.

 

Aramis and Porthos had headed back for the other room, the larger man pulling his friend to a stop just before they entered. “What was all that about?” he asked, pitching his voice low so that his words didn’t carry any further than person for whom they were intended. “Did you see how he flinched away when you tried to check his wound?”

 

Aramis nodded unsure of how to respond, “I don’t know any more than you do, Porthos. Perhaps this is because of Paris?”

 

Porthos’ eyes narrowed, reminded of their poor behaviour for which they still needed to apologize, “Boy’s not the type to hold a grudge, Aramis. Besides, I woulda’ thought us being here would be proof enough that we’re sorry for what happened. Did you get a chance to explain when you saw him earlier?”

 

“No, he was still unconscious the last time and, truthfully, I have been somewhat distracted by Athos’ condition to really focus on d’Artagnan’s care,” Aramis admitted guiltily.

 

Porthos gently pushed Aramis through the doorway of Athos’ room, Treville looking up at them, expecting that they would keep their word and go rest now. Instead, Porthos addressed him, “Is d’Artagnan alright?”

 

Confused by the question, Treville replied with one of his own, “Has something happened?”

 

Aramis rushed to reply, seeing the Captain getting ready to stand, “No, we just checked on him and he seems fine. It’s just…” he trailed off, unsure of how to describe the Gascon’s behaviour.

 

“He seems _off_ ,” Porthos stated. “Kinda sullen and brooding; not really sure how else to describe it.”

 

The Captain nodded, “I believe it’s been difficult for him to rely upon others while his wounds heal. I’ve been trying to give him some time alone since he seems to prefer it to being watched constantly.”

 

“That sounds about right,” Porthos agreed, fondness coloring his words as he recalled the previous times the boy had been injured and how he detested having someone hovering over him.

 

“Despite his desire to be alone, someone needs to replace the cold cloths on his shoulder far more often to bring the swelling down,” Aramis declared.

 

“Alright,” Treville agreed easily, “I’ll make sure one of the men does that when I’m not available. Anything else?”

 

“When was the last time he’s eaten or had anything for the pain?” Aramis continued, the caregiver in him taking over despite the fact that he was speaking with his commanding officer.

 

“He managed some broth and the draught you made early this morning, before he went back to sleep,” the Captain explained. “Why don’t you watch Athos for a minute while I make arrangements for more broth and to have his shoulder tended.”

 

“Thank you, Captain,” Aramis breathed out, relaxing minutely at the knowledge that d’Artagnan would be taken care of even if it could not be by his hands. Porthos allowed Aramis a last check of Athos’ condition before chivvying him to re-take his spot on the floor, waiting until the Captain returned before laying down beside his friend. Aramis was already asleep but he instinctively rolled towards Porthos, the larger man grinning in amusement before wrapping an arm around the man’s chest and closing his eyes. Treville watched the pair as they drifted off, shaking his head at the strength of the bond that existed between these men, while at the same time unsuccessfully struggling to identify the twinge of disquiet that tugged insistently at the back of his mind.

* * *

When his friends had shown up at his door, d’Artagnan couldn’t help the immediate joy he’d felt at seeing them, especially grateful when he was able to confirm with his own eyes that both were unhurt. Porthos’ grin had lifted his spirits and, for a moment, he’d forgotten his earlier hurt feelings, automatically responding to his friends’ presence. Seconds later his previous thoughts caught up with him and the doubts from earlier reasserted themselves, causing him to feel adrift and uncertain about how to behave around the two men; it was in this moment of doubt that Aramis startled him by reaching out to check his wound.

 

Silently, d’Artagnan berated himself for flinching away from his friend’s touch, knowing that the medic would never hurt him and hoping that neither man would question his reaction. When Porthos had started speaking, the young man’s heart lightened once more, recognizing that his friend was trying to distract him from the discomfort of Aramis’ examination. While he appreciated the effort, Porthos’ understatement of Athos’ condition angered him, and he wondered again if the man was intentionally keeping the truth from him because of the current strain between them.

 

When Aramis had seemingly berated him for not taking better care of his dislocated shoulder, his first reaction had been anger at the man’s insinuation that he’d neglected it intentionally. After a few moments he was able to curb his instinct to defend himself and opted to share the truth, even though he felt embarrassed sharing his vulnerability. Aramis’ compassionate response had been welcome and, again, the Gascon found himself happy to let the other man care for him, the gentle touches reminding him of previous occasions when he’d enjoyed the man’s kindness.

 

_“d’Artagnan, you must stay still, otherwise you’ll ruin my fine needlework,” Aramis scolded, although his words had little heat._

_The Gascon huffed, causing the medic to smile briefly, but did his best not to flinch as Aramis placed another stitch on his forearm. The gash wasn’t overly painful, but the sensation of the needle entering his skin and, worse yet, the thread dragging through to close the cut in his arm, had the boy more than a little queasy. He could normally stand the process of being tended better than this, but the wine he’d consumed had made his belly and his head fragile, and the blows he’d traded with a willing Red Guard had not improved his disposition any, although the fight had been a momentary welcome distraction from his other thoughts._

_“There, all done,” Aramis declared as he tied off the last knot. He wiped the length of the wound with a cloth, removing all traces of the blood that had leaked from the wound, covering it with a salve which he pulled from his canvas bag. Reaching for a length of clean linen, he braced the Gascon’s arm on his thigh as he began to wrap it. “Did it help?” he asked conversationally. At the young man’s confused look, he added, “The fight with the Red Guard. Did it make you feel better?”_

_d’Artagnan offered a one-sided shrug in reply, not willing to admit that for a few minutes he’d lost himself in the familiarity of the movements that now seemed to be second nature to him, the result of hours of patient instruction and correction from Athos. As he’d traded blows with the other man, his blood had sung, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he’d forgotten for a short while that his love had forsaken him. He’d felt unstoppable and had been confident in his victory, even when another of his opponent’s comrades joined in the fray; he’d merely grinned like a madman and swung his sword to meet the other attacker’s blade. He’d defeated both men as he knew he would and stumbled away, breaths coming harshly but feeling elated nonetheless for the physical outlet he’d had for his emotional pain. The sting in his arm hadn’t even registered until he’d been several streets away and noticed the wetness on his hand, his eyes following the rivulets of red that dripped from his fingers to stain the dirt beneath his feet._

_He realized now that he was staring down at his arm, the white of a bandage having replaced the red he’d seen there earlier and Aramis was still sitting across from him, waiting patiently for an answer to his question. “Maybe, a bit,” he allowed, a rueful grin on his face._

_Aramis nodded knowingly, no stranger to finding release through physical exertion himself. “And now,” he prodded._

_d’Artagnan considered the question, reflecting on how he was feeling, and recognized that the relief he’d experienced, while exhilarating in the moment, had been fleeting. The pain of his loss was just as sharp as before and now it was compounded by his physical discomforts, his belly and head still delicate and unsettled, and the cut in his arm throbbing in time with the beat of his heart. Ducking his head shyly he shook his head, stopping when the motion made his vision swim. Aramis was quiet as he carefully pushed d’Artagnan down to lay on the bed, removing his boots and then covering him with a blanket. “You are stronger than you know, d’Artagnan, and even this wound will heal with time.” The Gascon intuitively knew that Aramis wasn’t referring to his injured arm, and then realized belatedly that he was still in the healer’s room and had now taken the man’s bed. Making a weak attempt at sitting up, Aramis placed a hand on his chest, holding him in place. “I need to go back to my room, Aramis,” d’Artagnan protested, making another attempt to rise and dismayed at the how easily the other man held him in place._

_“Do you not find my bed comfortable enough?” Aramis asked, a glint of amusement in his eyes._

_d’Artagnan sensed he was being teased but his wine-soaked brain wasn’t coherent enough to know for certain, “Of course, but where will you sleep?” Aramis looked down at the floor next to the bed, causing another look of distress to cross the Gascon’s face._

_This time, Aramis did laugh, a sound filled with warmth and utterly devoid of ridicule or censure that the young man simply let it flow over him. “It’s nothing, d’Artagnan, I’ve slept in worse places and it’s no less than you would do for a friend. Allow me to simply return the favour.” And he had, tucked safely into Aramis’ bed, the lingering scent of lavender tickling the nose, while the other men kept watch over him like a silent sentinel from his place on the floor._

 

Porthos’ proclamation that they needed to get back to Athos had d’Artagnan’s mood shifting once more, bringing back his melancholy with full force as he again faced the prospect of recovering without his friends by his side. He’d tried to put on a brave face, but if Aramis’ reaction was anything to go by, he’d been only partially successful. As much as he appreciated the fact that these men had followed him to Gascony, he couldn’t help but wonder if things would have turned out differently if they’d been with him from the beginning. Now, as he faced several days of forced dependency while he healed, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat resentful at the fact that he was once more alone, reinforcing his feelings of abandonment, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he was being unreasonable.

 

He finally concluded that he would follow the other men’s lead, ensuring that he would not get between the original inseparables, nor do anything that might distract the men from their more important task of helping Athos get well. No matter what happened between them, he could not deny the love that he held for these three and their decision to distance themselves from him would not change those feelings. All three had been instrumental in helping him attain his commission, Athos especially, and he would not repay them by acting like a spoiled child when the older man’s life was at stake. Instead, he resolved to do everything in his power to rely upon Aramis and Porthos as little as possible so that they could focus their energies on the other man.

 

It was at this point that Thierry interrupted his thoughts, and d’Artagnan was surprised to see the man, having been cared for primarily by the Captain until now. “d’Artagnan, the Captain asked me to change out the cloth on your shoulder so we can manage the swelling.” Receiving a nod from the Gascon, Thierry proceeded to replace the now warm cloth with another that was far colder, pulling a shiver from the young man. Thierry frowned at him, asking, “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine, Thierry, thank you for this,” d’Artagnan replied, regulating his breathing as his body reacted to the spike of pain caused by the coldness that now penetrated into the damaged joint.

 

“Are you hungry?” Thierry questioned, “I have broth warming in the kitchen for you.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face blanched at the thought of having another feed him and he quickly shook his head, “No, thank you, maybe later.”

 

Thierry’s brow furrowed as he contemplated the sickly looking man in front of him, “Are you sure, d’Artagnan? You need to eat to get better.”

 

“I know, Thierry…” he paused, not knowing what else he could say and feeling uncomfortable under the other man’s piercing gaze.

 

Thierry’s voice softened as he said, “d’Artagnan, we have all been in situations where we have had to rely upon our brothers when wounded. I know that it is not easy to accept help, but I would be grateful if you’d let me assist you.” He pasted a somewhat rueful grin on his face as he explained, “Don’t make me report to the Captain that I couldn’t get you to eat.”

 

The comment pulled a small huff of amusement from the young man, knowing well that the Captain’s wrath would be directed at him rather than Thierry, but he gave a short nod regardless. “Alright, I could probably manage some broth.”

 

Thierry’s face broke into a small smile as he turned to collect the broth, “Be right back.”

 

While it was not an ideal situation, d’Artagnan found that he was actually feeling better for Thierry’s intervention and he started to believe that perhaps he could survive this after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is a difficult thing to allow others’ help when wounded and doubly difficult when one is as prideful as our young Gascon. How long has it taken for us to get the boy to tell us when he’s hurt or to ask for assistance when he needs it? How much did it cost him to approach us in Paris, only to find that when he was weak and hurting, his friends were denied to him once more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support for this story. I can only echo what many others have said before me - this is a truly generous fandom! Hope you enjoy this next chapter.

Over the next two days d’Artagnan continued to improve, progressing to being able to hold a cup on his own although his hand still trembled at the weakness in his shoulder and arm muscles. He’d been fortunate and none of his wounds had become infected, and the Captain, with a helping hand from Porthos, had managed to replace his right arm into its socket. The pain had been excruciating and, while he’d otherwise begged off any pain relief, not wanting Aramis’ attention or supplies to be divided, he’d eagerly accepted a draught after his arm had been strapped once more to take the weight off the damaged joint.

 

Athos’ condition remained precarious and, other than the few minutes when Porthos had helped with his dislocated shoulder, he hadn’t seen or spoken with either of his friends. All he knew about Athos’ situation came through the Captain, who continued to assist with Athos’ care when the other two men needed a break. He’d been told by Treville that the infection continued to resist all of their efforts and he’d sent one of the men into the nearby town to seek a physician; as he’d predicted, the physician had no additional suggestions for them although he did give them a quantity of herbs, which Aramis had been ordered to brew into teas and pour down the man’s throat whenever they were able.

 

Despite the duration of the ill man’s fever, Aramis and Porthos refused to give up and continued to do everything in their power to heal their friend. d’Artagnan happily accepted their absence in exchange for the hope that his mentor might live, regardless of the relationship that the four of them might have in the future. As a result, the Gascon now found himself torn at the Captain’s announcement that they would be leaving the following morning.

 

“But, Captain, Athos can’t be ready to travel,” d’Artagnan protested.

 

“No, he’s not. Aramis and Porthos will remain here to care for him and I’ll leave two of the others behind as well to help out. They’ll follow when they’re able, but I’m expected back in Paris by the end of next week.”

 

“Then I’ll stay with them,” the Gascon suggested.

 

“d’Artagnan, I know this is difficult, but it will be easier if they only have one wounded man instead of two to care for. Aramis seems confident that you’ll be able to manage the trip if we take things slowly,” Treville explained.

 

d’Artagnan was once more divided, not faulting the Captain’s logic and agreeing that he didn’t want to be a burden on his friends, but the idea of leaving them behind just seemed so _wrong_. They continued to be at loose ends and no one had spoken of the events in Paris; but departing without them felt like _he_ was forsaking _them_. Swallowing thickly at the conflicting emotions he was experiencing, he locked gazes with the older man, seeing nothing but empathy in the man’s face. “Can I see him?” he asked quietly, scared that he might be denied.

 

Treville’s instinct was to reject the request. Athos’ condition was dire and would do little to assure the boy but, on the other hand, it might also be the last opportunity the young man would have to say good-bye to his friend. “Alright,” he agreed. “But only for a short while. You’re still recovering from your own serious injuries and will need to be well-rested for the journey back.”

 

The Gascon nodded eagerly, willing to agree to anything for the chance to finally see his best friend. d’Artagnan was still weak from blood-loss, lack of food and the inactivity of his recovery, and the short walk from his room to the next was a painful reminder of his own infirmity. As a result, it was a weary and trembling Gascon who entered Athos’ room and found himself deposited on one of the chairs beside the bed. His attention was immediately drawn away from his own aches as he focused on the man lying in the bed in front of him. It was obvious that Athos was extremely ill, fine tremors racking his frame as he shivered from the heat of his fever while, at the same time, sweating in an effort to cool his overly hot body. d’Artagnan leaned forward a bit so he could reach his mentor’s hand, holding it with his left in a weak embrace. Aramis and Porthos watched as the Gascon simply stared at Athos’ slack face, his shock at the extent of the man’s illness evident on his face.

 

Several minutes passed before d’Artagnan had to shift back in his seat, his ribs loudly protesting the position he’d been in to maintain his hold on Athos’ hand. Taking several steadying breaths, he caught Aramis’ eye, “Will he be alright?” The anguish on the medic’s face was clear and d’Artagnan dropped his gaze, swallowing heavily at the idea that Athos might die. His voice trembled as he asked, “Is there no hope?”

 

The sorrow in the Gascon’s voice nearly broke his two friends and both men came over, Aramis sitting facing him on the edge of the bed while Porthos stood beside him, a warm hand on the nape of his neck. “d’Artagnan, there is always hope,” Aramis replied softly. “I’m just not certain that it will be enough this time.”

 

d’Artagnan’s heart clenched at the other man’s words and he drew a sharp breath before turning to look up at Porthos, tears welling in his eyes.

 

“Oh, lad,” Porthos’ voice was soft and deep and the Gascon found his tears spilling even as the large man dropped to his knees and pulled the young man to his chest. Moments later, d’Artagnan felt the warmth of another body pressing against him as Aramis joined in their embrace, the strain of the past days overwhelming them all, and all three of them needing the comfort found in each other’s arms. They stayed that way for several minutes, the sound of the Gascon’s quiet sobs the only thing to break the stillness of the room. Aramis pulled away first, swiping a sleeve across dewy eyes, followed by d’Artagnan who wore the signs of his anguish in his red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. Porthos wiped hastily at his own eyes as Aramis handed the young man a delicate handkerchief to dry his face.

 

Unhappy at the way that d’Artagnan now slumped in the chair, his left hand protectively holding his broken ribs, Aramis cleared his throat, “We’d best get you back to bed, d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon nodded numbly, worn out in both body and spirit after seeing his mentor. He leaned forward again, bracing himself with one hand on the bed as he pleaded with Athos, “You must get better, Athos. It cannot end this way between us. Promise me that you’ll fight.” He stayed there for several long moments, as if waiting for the older man to reply, until the arm supporting him began to tremble. Porthos’ hand gently guided him back and then helped him upright, the two men supporting their friend back to his bed. Once the Gascon was settled, Porthos placed a hand on his arm, bending over to whisper into the boy’s ear. “I cannot promise this will have a happy ending, but I promise we’ll bring him home, no matter what.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded and then watched the two men leave, the room immediately feeling colder with their absence. Despite the strained relations between them, tonight had felt like _home_ , like _family_ , and he could not bear the idea that these might be forever lost to him. He would wait for these men, regardless of the outcome in Gascony, and when they were back, they would clear the air; what he’d found with these men was worth fighting for.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos had taken a few minutes away from Athos to come outside and bid the group farewell, both men offering the Gascon a gentle hug before the larger man helped him mount his steed. He held both reins loosely in his left hand, his right still tightly strapped to his chest as his shoulder healed, but he was not expected to be able to control his horse. In deference to the ongoing weakness in his arm, they’d attached another lead to his horse’s bridle, which was currently in Sebastian’s hands, allowing him to take charge of the Gascon’s horse when the young man couldn’t. Despite the many hours he’d spent in bed the previous night, d’Artagnan was fatigued, sleep having eluded him for the majority of the night after seeing Athos with his own eyes. The idea of now riding away from the ailing man as well as his two other friends had the young man’s stomach churning uncomfortably, threatening to make his meagre breakfast reappear. Regardless, he put on a brave face, not wanting either Aramis or Porthos to worry about him and he managed a small smile for the two as he dug his heels into his horse’s flank to begin moving.

 

The Captain had explained that they had an extra couple of days for their return trip, allowing them the leeway to take the first days slowly based on the Gascon’s needs. Aramis had tried to press a pain draught on him before he’d mounted his horse, but he’d steadfastly refused, stubbornly insisting that he’d be fine; it was a decision he soon grew to regret. They’d kept the horses to a walk in order to minimize the jarring impact of the beasts’ footfalls on d’Artagnan’s fragile ribs and shoulder, but even the task of sitting upright in the saddle placed pressure on his broken bones. The first hour had him covered in a sheen of sweat, his breaths coming in shallow pants as he fought to control the pain; the second hour saw him slumped badly in the saddle, the hunched position not helping his damaged ribcage, but too weary from the pain to remain upright. The Captain had checked with him frequently, offering multiple times to stop for a rest, but the Gascon had consistently rejected each offer, asserting his ability to continue a little further before needing to halt. When the two-hour mark had d’Artagnan’s frame racked by fine tremors, Treville took matters into his own hands and simply led the group into the shade of a copse of trees, dismounting and striding directly to the young man before he could fall from his saddle.

 

The dismount was far from graceful and d’Artagnan was grateful that not only the Captain but Sebastian was there as well, holding him up as his knees threatened to bring him to the ground. They half-carried him to the base of a large tree, sitting him down gently and allowing him to lean against its firm support. After that he must have drifted, for the next thing he remembered was waking to see the Captain sitting beside him, a cup held in one hand. “d’Artagnan, you must drink this,” he ordered, lifting the cup to the boy’s lips. Despite the bitter taste, the Gascon drained the cup, surprised at how thirsty he was and grateful to have something to relieve the dryness of his mouth and throat.

 

“What was that?” he asked, the flavour oddly familiar.

 

“Just something for the pain. I add a bit of honey to it to make it go down easier,” Treville answered easily, glad that he’d managed to get the young man to drink the draught. At the horrified look on the boy’s face, the Captain tutted at him, “Don’t tell me you don’t need anything; your appearance clearly contradicts your words and you’ll be far more likely to stay in the saddle if you’re not insensible because of the pain.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face reddened at the harsh words as his gaze dropped to his lap, “Yes, sir.”

 

Treville softened his tone, not having meant to scold the boy but unwilling to allow him to be in pain and possibly cause himself further damage, “d’Artagnan, you won’t heal as quickly if you’re in pain and I promised Aramis and Porthos that I’d take proper care of you. I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me about how you’re feeling. Remember, to hide one’s weakness puts us all at risk; we must have an accurate idea of your limitations so we may compensate for them.”

 

The Gascon raised his eyes, recognizing the similar message that Athos had tried to drill into him and nodded, “I understand; it won’t happen again.”

 

“Good. So, how are you feeling?” the Captain asked, wasting no time in taking advantage of the promise he’d garnered.

 

d’Artagnan had been in pain from the first few moments after the horse had started moving and it had only escalated in intensity as time wore on, until he was nearly consumed by the unrelenting and raw aches that assaulted him with every step. “I hurt,” he admitted and, seeing the expectant look on the Captain’s face, he added, “a lot. Thank you for letting me take a break.” Treville nodded and d’Artagnan swore he could see a hint of a smile on the man’s normally serious face. “Where did that pain draught come from?” he asked, finally recognizing the bitterness in the drink, which the honey had tried to mask.

 

“Aramis gave me some powder that could be mixed with water, and” he continued on before the young man could interrupt, “he assures me that he’s well-stocked and what he’s provided for you will not harm Athos in any way.”

 

d’Artagnan offered a sheepish smile, “That’s good to know. Thank you, sir.”

 

Treville gave the young man’s leg a squeeze before standing, “We’ll rest for another ten minutes and then go a bit further before lunch. Do you need anything?” At the Gascon’s head shake, Treville turned on his heel to check on the others and to get a drink of water.

 

d’Artagnan let his head drop against the tree trunk with a soft sigh, his eyelids heavy from the sleep he’d missed and the pain he’d been struggling with all morning. He let them close as his thoughts drifted back to his three friends, the distance that grew between them making him miss them more sharply than before. The men he travelled with now had been kind to him but their help only reminded him of his brothers’ absence all the more. These men had filled a void in his life which he had thought would remain empty, eating away at him until no part of him remained. Instead, their firm and steady guidance had provided him with direction, a means to support himself and, most importantly, family, something he’d not expected to ever have again after his father’s untimely passing. He’d felt very much adrift when they’d parted in Paris, their words seeming hurtful in the light of recent events, casting doubt on a friendship that had survived through many difficult days. That they had followed him to Gascony gave him hope that their friendship had not been one-sided. The time spent recovering at Jacques’ house had cast a deep shadow on his thoughts once more, but as he travelled further away, he could not help but feel a pull to go back to them, almost as though they were tethered to each other in some tangible way. It was almost enough to have him pleading with Treville to allow him to return, but the Captain’s admonishment lay heavy on his shoulders _: it will be easier if they only have one wounded man instead of two to care for_.

 

“d’Artagnan, are you awake?” Treville voice called to him lowly.

 

Sluggishly, he forced weary lids to open, giving the Captain a short nod to let him know he was awake. The older man placed a hand around his left bicep, pulling him gently to his feet where the Gascon swayed for a moment before willfully steadying himself and then shuffling back to his horse. Sebastian helped him into the saddle and d’Artagnan cast a sorrowful look backwards, jolting slightly as his horse began to move forward under the other Musketeer’s direction, casting a message to his friends on the winds: _be safe; come home soon_.

* * *

The house seemed so much quieter since d’Artagnan’s departure, which had both the Captain and half of their fellow Musketeers departing. Aramis once more sent a prayer of thanks for Jacques’ absence, prompted first by fear and now out of charity, the man had stopped by briefly to give his thanks for ridding them of the Baron’s tyranny and invited them to stay in his home for as long as they needed, before returning to stay elsewhere with his friends. The medic was grateful for the man’s gift, recognizing that Jacques was likely sacrificing a good portion of his crop by being away and not tending to his fields. He thought at some point he’d need to point that out to Treville and see if d’Artagnan’s uncle could be compensated in some way, but first Athos needed to get better.

 

Their leader continued to burn with fever and Aramis was beginning to lose faith in their ability to turn the tide. With each passing hour, Athos’ body grew weaker and the medic knew that they would soon reach a point where their friend would simply slip away from them. They had been aggressive in their attempts to cure the man, Aramis pulling the stiches on Athos’ wound and flushing it thoroughly, forcing herb-infused teas down his throat, and bathing him tirelessly with cool water – all to no avail. Finally, Porthos took the ailing man’s care into his own hands, waiting until Aramis had literally passed out with exhaustion since the healer argued vehemently against the large man’s suggestion. With the help of the other two Musketeers, Porthos filled a tub with nothing but cold water from the well. When it was ready, he’d wrapped Athos gently in a sheet and carried him to the tub, laying him carefully into the icy water.

 

It was the most energized that Athos had been since his rescue, flailing unhappily as the cold water flowed over his scalding skin. Porthos kept a strong hold on his friend, whispering meaningless platitudes at his ear as the man slowly calmed and became still once more. He didn’t dare keep the older man submersed for too long, just as familiar as Aramis with stories of those whose hearts had stopped beating from the shock of the cold, and five minutes later he was pulling his friend out, laying him on a blanket in order to dry him. It was at this point that Aramis found them, a look of betrayal on his face, but Porthos could not find it in himself to apologize for what he perceived as a last, desperate attempt to save his brother’s life. Fortunately, Aramis chose not to berate him and simply fell to his knees at Athos’ other side, helping Porthos get him dry before carrying the man between them back to bed. They’d slumped once more into their chairs, watching and waiting to see if Porthos’ drastic act would have any effect, the minutes turning into an hour, which then dragged on into two.

 

They almost missed the first indications that something had changed, Porthos having fallen asleep in his chair while Aramis dozed, startling himself awake every few minutes when his head fell towards his chest. Athos’ head had rolled, but not with the frenetic tossing that accompanied a high fever; it looked like he’d simply repositioned to be more comfortable. His breathing had changed as well, perceptibly easing from the harsh pants that had marked the last several days’ struggle for breath. When Aramis’ fatigued brain catalogued these changes, he reached a shaky hand forward, almost too afraid of what he might find. With his hand gingerly on Athos’ brow, Aramis allowed himself the first tiny spark of hope that his friend might live; while still warm, the man’s skin was considerably cooler.

 

Nearly trembling with relief, Aramis fell to his knees beside the bed, grasping Athos’ hand between both of his as he lost himself in the familiar comfort of prayer, the words spilling effortlessly from his lips as he relished the fact that his friend’s heart still beat. Aramis’ words penetrated the fog shrouding Porthos’ tired brain and he sat forward quickly as he realized that his friend was praying.

 

“Aramis,” he breathed out, “is he…”

 

The medic lifted his eyes, a hint of a smile on his face as he shook his head, “No, Porthos, he’s cooler. I think he’s getting better.”

 

The bellow of laughter that erupted from the larger man’s chest had their fellow Musketeers running, concerned that the ailing man had finally succumbed. The looks of joy on the two friends’ faces dispelled these morbid thoughts immediately, and the two men retreated again, sensing that they were intruding on a scene that was not meant for others’ eyes. Porthos’ desperate act was the turning point and Athos progressively improved, waking fully several hours later and managing to drink some broth with Aramis’ assistance the following morning. It took two more days before Athos was able to stay awake longer than a few minutes and took his first bites of solid food – granted, it was a fairly thin stew, but his two friends celebrated as if he’d achieved something far grander, simply relieved that the man was improving. 

 

By the fourth day, Athos was visibly chafing, feeling better than he had in a week, but still feeble from the infection that had ravaged his body and nearly ended his life. Once he’d discovered that d’Artagnan had travelled back to Paris without him, he wanted nothing more than to follow, but an ill-advised attempt to walk on his own proved Aramis’ point that he was not yet ready to be out of bed, something that both men were happy to remind him of again as they picked him up off the floor where he’d fallen. When they had the man settled comfortably in bed, Porthos offered a compromise, “If you really want to get goin’ I could see if there’s a cart we can borrow.”

 

The look of disgust on Athos’ face, although diminished significantly by his pale and gaunt features, still carried enough weight to let his friends know what he thought of Porthos’ idea. The large man sniggered at the look, not affected at all, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Look, Aramis says you need a few more days before you can stand the ride, so you’ll just have to be patient for now.” Athos had merely grunted while Aramis had looked on, an overly-pleased grin plastered to his face at having gotten his way.

 

Later, during one of his now more frequent times of wakefulness, he’d broached the subject that still hung over them like a dark cloud, sensing that there were things that had yet to be resolved. “Did you speak with d’Artagnan about leaving without us?” he asked one evening as the men sat in their respective chairs, sipping Jacques’ brandy while Athos looked on longingly, Aramis having banned him from anything stronger than water.

 

The two friends shared an uncomfortable look, but it was Aramis who first broke the silence, “Athos, you were sick, possibly dying.” He swallowed thickly, the recency of the man’s illness still fresh in his mind. “I have to admit that your condition was somewhat… _distracting_ and left little opportunity for conversation.”

 

Athos’ gaze shifted to Porthos who was nodding in agreement with his friend’s words. “How was he?” the older man questioned, trying to understand the Gascon’s state of mind.

 

“He was doin’ well. The Captain took good care of him and wouldn’t have ridden back to Paris with ‘im if he’d been in any danger,” Porthos replied.

 

Athos shook his head sharply, frustration beginning to color his words, “Not physically, how did he _seem_ to you?”

 

Another guilty looked passed between the two men and Athos brought a hand to the bridge of his nose, a twinge of a headache beginning to appear as his suspicions gained ground, fueling his concern at how long the situation between themselves and d’Artagnan had been allowed to go on unfettered. “Things seemed a little off to begin with, but I think they were better at the end,” Porthos stated, looking to Aramis for his agreement.

 

Aramis gave a nod of assent, “He was uncomfortable when I tried to tend to his shoulder, but I believe we parted on better terms once he’d seen you.”

 

Athos eyes snapped up sharply at the medic’s words, still having very little knowledge of the time while he’d lain sick and fevered, “What do you mean, _once he’d seen me_?”

 

Both men sensed the growing anger in their friend and were wary of fueling it further, “Athos, you must understand. We were by your side day and night, only resting when the Captain ordered us and he was able to take our place at your side. It would not have done the boy any good to see you in that state and his injuries were grave enough to address,” Aramis explained, trying to placate the man.

 

“The Captain brought ‘im in to see you the night before they left, just in case…” Porthos didn’t finish the thought, but it was clear to everyone in the room what he’d meant: _just in case you didn’t survive_.

 

Athos let out a defeated sigh, knowing that his friends had done what they’d thought best, but recognizing that the boy’s unintentional isolation would have been harder on the Gascon than seeing his best friend fighting for his life. “If you were with me, who cared for his injuries?” Athos asked, already fearing that he knew the answer, but needing to confirm it regardless.

 

“Captain Treville cared for the boy for the first day or two and then he had the others checking on him in between their chores. Don’t worry, Athos, he was well tended,” Porthos assured him.

 

Athos could only nod, knowing that the problem was not a lack of care, but by whom it had been provided. He himself had been in the same situation often enough in the past to recognize the trait in others; the absolute hatred of being doted upon and the helplessness that accompanied severe injury, feelings that could only be overcome if those doing the tending were close enough to surmount the embarrassment attached to being so vulnerable.

 

“Athos,” Aramis prodded, unhappy at the man’s sudden silence. “What is it?”

 

Athos shook his head, not wanting his friends to feel badly for focusing all of their attentions on him, but at the same time needing them to know how the young man might have perceived their actions in order to be able to make things right between them. “It is a difficult thing to allow others’ help when wounded and doubly difficult when one is as prideful as our young Gascon. How long has it taken for us to get the boy to tell us when he’s hurt or to ask for assistance when he needs it? How much did it cost him to approach us in Paris, only to find that when he was weak and hurting, his friends were denied to him once more?” His words had grown quiet as he spoke, his eyes drifting downwards as he posed the questions not only to his friends but to himself as well. In his peripheral vision, he could see his two friends deflate and knew they felt as badly as he did about how their actions might have been misunderstood, unintentionally contributing to the strain that now existed between them.

 

“We’ll make this right,” Porthos declared, conviction strong in his voice.

 

“Porthos is right, Athos, we’ll make amends; for this and for Paris. The boy has a forgiving nature and we’ll just need to explain ourselves to him when we get back,” Aramis agreed wholeheartedly, trying to infuse greater optimism into his tone than he felt. Athos could only nod in agreement, his mind still swirling with the thoughts of what he’d just learned, his gut seizing painfully as it warned him that things would not be settled between them so easily.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one week turned into two, the Gascon couldn’t help but get more anxious that his friends had still not returned, even though he knew logically that the longer the men were away, the better, suggesting that Athos still lived and that the men were not on their way back with his brother’s body. Despite this, he could not help but look at the courtyard gates each time riders approached, hope welling only to be crushed when the returning Musketeers were not those who he sought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your wonderful comments on this story so far. The three are finally on their way back home and we see what d'Artagnan is up to as he waits for his friends' return. Enjoy!

It took almost a full week of good meals, gentle exercise and more rest than Athos could ever remember being subjected to before Aramis was satisfied and the decision was made to return. As anxious as they were to get back to Paris, they knew the others would be as well, wondering at Athos’ condition. The morning of their departure, Porthos and the others packed their supplies and saddled the horses while Aramis did one last check of Athos’ wound.

 

Athos sat with forced patience, knowing well that the medic would not be rushed and he would not be allowed to mount his horse before his friend was satisfied. “Well?” he asked when he heard Aramis hum.

 

“It’s healing well. You’ll still need to keep your weight off of it as much as possible so the stitches don’t tear, but that should only be for a few more days,” Aramis replied.

 

“Then it’s past time for us to be on our way,” Athos declared, eager to be on the road home.

 

Aramis helped Athos dress and then assisted him outside to his horse, where the others were ready to go. In deference to Athos’ injury, Porthos had lengthened the stirrup on one side so his leg could rest in a more natural position; it meant that Athos would be more easily unseated, but it would be a far less painful trip overall. With Athos comfortably settled, Porthos swung onto his horse, watching as Aramis closed the door to the house that had been their home for the past two weeks.

 

“Did you leave something appropriate for our host?” Athos asked.

 

“Athos,” Aramis drawled, a charming smile gracing his face, “I am a gentleman. Of course I left something for our host, and if I have my way, the Captain will be showing his appreciation as well.”

 

Athos gave a nod of understanding as he caught the purse that Aramis threw him, affixing it once more to his belt. They owed d’Artagnan’s uncle a great deal and the older man had been happy to empty his purse in gratitude after sending word to Jacques the previous day of their planned departure. With an “after you” gesture Athos indicated to their fellow Musketeers to take the lead, the three friends falling into place behind them with the older man flanked by the other two. It would be a long road home but it was one they were all grateful to be able to share.

* * *

They accomplished the trip back to Paris in 10 days, just a few hours short of Treville’s deadline. The additional time had allowed d’Artagnan opportunities to rest along the way and the fact that they’d kept the horses to a walk had minimized the negative effects of the trip on his still-healing body. Regardless, the journey had been a difficult one and he found himself trembling and shaky as he dismounted, leaning against his horse’s flank while he waited for his legs to fully take his weight. He startled when he felt a touch on his arm, the Captain placing a hand on his to both support him and get his attention. “d’Artagnan, Sebastian will help you to your room and get you settled. I’ll have the physician and some food sent up for you and I expect you’ll do whatever the man says. Understood?” The young man gave a short nod, pushing himself away from his horse and turning slowly to find Sebastian waiting for him. The Captain relinquished his charge into Sebastian’s care, repeating what he’d told the Gascon, but d’Artagnan tuned them out, busy focusing on gathering his remaining strength for the walk to his room.

 

They took things slowly, d’Artagnan’s strength ebbing as weariness took its toll, and he found himself leaning heavily on his comrade as the man helped him up the stairs since he was unable to brace himself properly with his right arm still strapped across his chest. They paused at the top of the steps, the Gascon taking a minute to catch his breath before nodding his readiness to continue. Sebastian led him directly over to the bed in his room, d’Artagnan sinking onto it gratefully, having forgotten how good it felt to be back among familiar surroundings. The Musketeer helped him scoot backwards on the bed until he was leaning against the wall, then removed his boots, doublet and shirt, leaving his right arm unbound when they were done.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Sebastian sank to his haunches next to the bed so the young man wouldn’t have to look up at him, “I’m going to go find some food for you while we wait for the physician to come. Do you need anything else before I go?”

 

“No, thanks,” he gave a small smile of gratitude to the man who’d been helping with his care throughout their return trip. With an answering smile, Sebastian rose and exited, leaving the door partially open to allow the physician entry when he arrived.

 

The Gascon let out a careful exhale, still mindful of his tender ribs which would likely pain him for another couple of weeks. He looked down at his free right hand, which lay limp in his lap, and flexed his fingers, noting the increased strength and lessened pain levels as his shoulder healed. Out of all his injuries, this was the one that had caused him the most stress, especially after Aramis’ serious admonishment that the damage to his sword arm could be permanent.

 

With a short rap of knuckles on the door, the physician entered, moving directly to the bed where he saw his patient waiting for him. Bringing a chair to sit next to the bed, he placed his bag of supplies on the floor as he seated himself, looking expectantly at the young Musketeer. “So, what have you done to yourself this time,” the man asked, though not without a hint of a smile.

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head shyly, having more than a passing familiarity with the doctor from his previous injuries. “Dislocated right shoulder, knife wound to the left shoulder, and a couple broken ribs,” he replied.

 

The physician tutted unhappily before leaning forward to begin his exam. After rotating his right shoulder to test his range of motion, then testing the strength in both hands, he checked the knife wound and pressed on the boy’s ribs, sitting back when he was finished. “Both shoulders are healing well and there’s no further need to keep your right one strapped. You can start some stretching and strengthening exercises, but go slowly or it’s likely to pop out again. Nothing much I can do for your ribs but bind them for you again. Otherwise, I don’t want you on a horse or sparring for another two weeks. After that you should be ready for light duty. Questions?”

 

The Gascon shook his head, smiling slightly at the man’s no-nonsense approach, but grateful not to be coddled and treated as though he might break apart at any moment – the last two weeks had seen more than enough of that sort of treatment. The physician rewrapped d’Artagnan’s ribs before he left and passed Sebastian on his way out. The Gascon could hear low voices outside his door as Sebastian brought him a tray of food, and he raised an inquiring eyebrow at the other man. “Captain’s just talking with the physician,” Sebastian informed him.

 

Moments later Treville joined them. He thanked Sebastian and dismissed him, taking the seat next to the Gascon’s bed as the young man began to eat. “The physician seems to be happy with your progress,” he stated.

 

d’Artagnan had to force himself to contain the eyeroll that threatened, recognizing that even a man as patient as the Captain would not allow such disrespect to go unanswered. “I’m fine,” he replied after he’d swallowed a bite, already chafing at the enforced period of recovery. Treville chose not to contradict him since the young man was doing much better and he knew how difficult it would be to be off duty for another two weeks, especially while consumed by worry for the friends he’d left behind. Instead, he chose to try another tact. “Are you familiar with Brunet?” he asked casually.

 

The Gascon’s brows furrowed momentarily as he sought to place the name. “One of the new recruits?” he hazarded.

 

“Yes, I think he could benefit from some one-on-one training from someone who’s recently been through their own,” the Captain explained. “He shows promise but needs tempering. I was thinking that you might be able to work with him while you recover.” He could see the wheels turning in the young man’s mind as he considered the officer’s offer. Sweetening the deal, he added, “Did you know that Brunet is from Gascony as well?”

 

The last comment got d’Artagnan’s attention, as Treville hoped it might, and he waited silently for the boy to come to a decision. The Gascon’s face fell for a second as his thoughts turned to his three friends, “What about Athos, Aramis and Porthos?”

 

Taking the liberty of squeezing the young man’s arm for a moment, he answered, “They’ll be along eventually. There’s nothing we can do but wait for them to arrive.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, “Alright, I’ll work with Brunet while I wait for them to get back.”

 

Treville kept the smile of satisfaction off his face as he stood, “Good. I’ll tell him to find you in the courtyard tomorrow morning. But, d’Artagnan,” he warned, “no overdoing it. This is not to set your recovery back in any way so you will not be engaging physically with the lad until you’re healed.”

 

The Gascon nodded, already beginning to plan how he would tutor the new recruit, thinking back to his own training in the early days of his acquaintance with his friends. Noting the young man’s distraction with amusement, Treville silently applauded himself for not allowing d’Artagnan to brood as he bade the young man good night. 

* * *

It had been a rare pleasure to be back in his own bed and not have to worry that his privacy would be intruded upon, no matter how well-meaning those tending to him had been. When he woke, d’Artagnan just laid in bed for several minutes, relishing the knowledge that he would be able to take care of his morning ablutions on his own and there was no need to put on a brave face for the Captain or any of the others. When he was ready, he rolled slowly to his left side, the right still too tender to hold his weight, and then pushed himself to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. Taking a couple of steadying breaths he made it to his feet and was pleased to find that he steadied almost immediately. He took care of his needs and then washed his hands, face and neck with water from his basin, pulling a clean shirt from his chest which sat at the foot of his bed. Threading his arms into the shirt pushed at his pain threshold, but after some creative squirming, he finally had it falling into place, sitting down again on his bed afterwards to catch his breath. Pulling his boots on required some additional inventiveness on his part, as bending over was not an option if he wanted to continue breathing, and he required another short rest when he was finished as he waited for the ache in his flank to subside. In comparison, donning his doublet was almost easy and he walked from the room gratefully when he was finally dressed.

 

Stopping at the top of the stairs he looked down at the courtyard, seeing a few men still sitting around finishing breakfast, while the majority of the others were engaged in various training activities. He spotted Brunet leaning against a post near the table where he and his friends usually ate, and d’Artagnan found himself swallowing the sudden lump that had appeared in his throat as he was reminded once more of the men’s absence. Pushing the thought away, he refocused his attention on the new recruit. He knew little of the man, having sparred with him on the odd occasion as he had with many of the others, Treville intentionally pairing the newer men with those who were more experienced as part of their training. From what he could recall, Brunet was lean and wiry, using speed to his advantage in much the same way as d’Artagnan himself did, and it made the Gascon wonder if this was part of the reason the Captain had paired the two of them. Beyond his limited knowledge of the recruit’s sword fighting style, he knew very little as Brunet had joined them in the last wave of new recruits, scarcely three months prior.

 

With a hand gripping tightly to the handrail, d’Artagnan made his way carefully down the stairs, placing his feet gently on each successive step so as to limit the jarring of his ribs. He drew a deeper breath at the bottom, intentionally straightening as he strode over to where Brunet was standing, the other man pulling himself upright as well at the Gascon’s approach. “Brunet,” d’Artagnan gave a nod of greeting. “You’ve received the Captain’s orders?”

 

Brunet nodded, a somewhat shy grin on his face, “Yes, I was very excited at the Captain’s offer to train with someone of your calibre.”

 

d’Artagnan was momentarily taken aback by the boy’s enthusiasm before he remembered his own awe and admiration of the men who had taken him under their tutelage. He gave Brunet a warm smile as he motioned to the table, “Why don’t we sit and you can tell me about yourself.”

 

Brunet seemed surprised by the request, but readily sat down across from the Musketeer, politely not commenting on the stiffness which punctuated the man’s movements or the wince that he was unable to hide as he seated himself. When they were both settled, d’Artagnan bracing himself with an arm on the table, he said, “I know that you’ve been at the regiment for a couple months now. Tell me a little about your training so far.”

 

Brunet was happy to accommodate the other man’s request, explaining how he’d been lauded for his strengths with a blade and on the back of a horse, while his shooting and fighting skills were rated as fair. Reddening a little, he’d also explained that he’d been advised to temper his emotions, having been compared to d’Artagnan himself by some of the other Musketeers. When he’d finished, d’Artagnan gave him a neutral look as he asked, “And what do you think?”

 

The recruit seemed startled at the question and fell silent for a few moments before replied, “I believe my accuracy with a pistol might improve with another’s more experienced guidance as can my ability to fight.” A boyish grin spreading across his face, he added, “And I probably need to do a better job of keeping my wits about me when I fight so I make fewer foolish mistakes.”

 

d’Artagnan returned the boy’s smile, “Well, I can tell you from personal experience that those are all things we can improve upon, as long as you’re willing to listen and apply what you’re told.”

 

Brunet had nodded eagerly and they’d spent their first morning working with swords, d’Artagnan coaching the recruit through a variety of positions. The afternoon was taken up by shooting practice and concluded with fighting tips, the Gascon aided in his efforts by some of the other men since he was unable to actually participate. By the end of the day, d’Artagnan felt tired in a way that was different from the previous weeks, finding satisfaction in having done something useful and discovering that he’d enjoyed the opportunity to be the one teaching for once, rather than being the student.

 

The next days passed much in the same fashion, d’Artagnan having gotten comfortable enough in the boy’s company that by the end of the week they were sharing meals together and had even spent an evening out at the tavern. If it wasn’t for the fact that the three inseparables were still absent, d’Artagnan would have found his current existence quite satisfying. As one week turned into two, the Gascon couldn’t help but get more anxious that his friends had still not returned, even though he knew logically that the longer the men were away, the better, suggesting that Athos still lived and that the men were not on their way back with his brother’s body. Despite this, he could not help but look at the courtyard gates each time riders approached, hope welling only to be crushed when the returning Musketeers were not those who he sought. Brunet couldn’t help but notice and felt comfortable enough to comment late one afternoon as they took a break, sitting again at their usual table. “I heard about what happened when you were back in Gascony,” Brunet began, gauging whether or not to continue by the look on the other man’s face. Seeing no outward reaction, he went on, “I know you were hurt and that some others stayed behind because Athos was unfit to make the journey.” d’Artagnan nodded, but offered nothing further. “I haven’t been here very long but the other men have told me that you and Athos are pretty close.”

 

The Gascon kept his tone carefully neutral, his feelings regarding his friends incredibly raw and still conflicted, “Yes, Athos sponsored my training and taught me much of what I know.” He took a steadying breath, uncertain how much he wanted to share, but desperate to give voice to some of what he’d been feeling since separated from his friends, “He, Aramis and Porthos – they’re my family. I won’t really be able to rest until I know that they’re alright.”

 

Brunet looked at the Musketeer across from him and nodded in understanding. “Of course, I had a best friend like that when I was growing up. We did everything together and there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other. I guess that’s why they went with you to Gascony?”

 

d’Artagnan flinched, the question catching him off guard, but there was nothing but curiosity on the other man’s face and the Musketeer swallowed. “Yes, I guess that’s why,” he answered quietly.

 

Brunet nodded enthusiastically, “It must be great to have friends like that here at the garrison - people you can rely on to watch your back no matter how dangerous things get.” He stopped to take a breath, adoration clear on his face, “I hope I can have that here one day too.”

 

The Gascon managed a smile, which he hoped didn’t look too much like a grimace, as he gave a short nod and swallowed thickly. Needing to end the uncomfortable conversation, he said, “I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you get cleaned up and take the rest of the afternoon for yourself.”

 

Brunet looked uncertain and paused as he stood, “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, you’ve earned it,” d’Artagnan assured him, the smile on his face becoming more natural.

 

“Alright, I’ll see you for dinner?” Brunet asked and the Gascon gave him a nod of agreement, sighing with relief when the recruit turned and walked away. He knew it had been accidental but Brunet’s words had shaken him, forcing him to face the ugly reminder that the men who were his closest friends had _not_ accompanied him to Gascony and had failed him when he’d needed their help. While he still had a hard time believing that their actions had been deliberate, it had been difficult not feeling resentful once he’d been captured and imprisoned by the Baron, feeling sure that the outcome would have been different had he not been alone. Those feelings had warred with his deep sense of relief that his brothers were safe, since there was little security in a soldier’s life and danger could strike at the most unexpected times. Even now that he’d been rescued, he was still having trouble reconciling the conflicting emotions he was experiencing when thinking of his friends. As much as he’d like to believe that everything would be fine once the men were once more reunited, the reality was that his feelings were still hurt by his friends’ actions and a resolution was needed if they were to return to their previous friendship, assuming that was even possible. This thought had the Gascon sighing deeply, stopping abruptly as his partially-healed ribs reminded him of his limits and he scrubbed a hand through his hair instead as he stood and made his way back to his room.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Huh,” Brunet commented, watching the three men walk out of sight, “surprised they didn’t ask you to come back to their rooms, especially after everything that’s happened. Guess they must be tired, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments on the last chapter. It was especially fun to hear all of the speculation about where this story might be heading and I wish I could incorporate all of your ideas - sadly, the story would then likely never end. Hope you enjoy this next installment!

The three men had found a certain amount of contentment in travelling back together, not pushing themselves unduly as Athos’ leg continued to heal, and revelling at the fact that they were in each other’s company, safe and relatively healthy. They had stopped at various inns along the way and ensured that Athos was resting and eating well, despite his protests that he felt fine, a litany that was too familiar to his friends and easily overruled. Athos, for his part, saw the lingering fear in his friends’ eyes so he allowed the men greater liberties with his welfare than he might otherwise, recognizing their need to confirm that he was whole and well. And underneath everything else, an undercurrent of tension existed, reminding them of their absent fourth who was hopefully safe and healing at the garrison.

 

“How do you think he’s doin’?” Porthos asked, glancing at Aramis as they rode three across, Athos in between his two friends.

 

Aramis looked contemplatively skywards, noting the pale, azure blue that contained only the barest wisps of white clouds, “I’d think his wounds will be healing well and he’ll likely be able to start strengthening his sword arm soon.”

 

Porthos traded a mildly exasperated look with Athos and the older man took up the conversation, “I don’t believe that’s quite what Porthos was referring to.”

 

“It wasn’t?” Aramis smiled sweetly as he replied in a far too innocent tone, knowing fully what worried his brothers since the same thoughts had occupied his mind since they’d departed Gascony. Donning a more serious expression, he sighed, “I’d hazard that your guess is as good as mine. He ended up making the trip home alone after his three closest friends refused to hear him out and was captured and tortured for his troubles. How would you feel?”

 

Aramis’ comments had the unintentional consequence of ending their conversation, Porthos’ brow furrowing as he once more berated himself for his part in their current situation and Athos falling into a brooding silence which both friends recognized as dangerous; they would need to keep an eye on the man’s wine consumption that night to ensure he didn’t harm himself.

 

“Look,” Aramis finally said, “I want to rid myself of this dark could that hangs over us just as badly as you; I just don’t know what talking about it further will accomplish. There’s nothing more to be done until we reach Paris and that will be at least another three, maybe four days.”

 

Porthos took it as the peace offering it was meant to be, throwing the medic a half-grin as he nodded. Athos took a few seconds longer, during which time Porthos’ stared at him until he finally turned his gaze to Aramis and nodded as well.

 

It was the last time during their journey home that they brought up the topic, distracting themselves from the boring hours spent in the saddle with stories of past skirmishes and conquests in the bed chamber. On the afternoon of the eleventh day they rode slowly through the garrison gates, Athos dismounting carefully as his stiff leg took the pressure of his weight before handing his horse off to the stable boy. Aramis and Porthos joined him as they watched the men training in the courtyard, one particular duo having caught their collective attention. d’Artagnan was sparring with a young man whose name currently escaped them and, as they watched, the Gascon stepped fluidly out of the way of a strike aimed at his side, stepping forward lightly afterwards to deliver a hit of his own. d’Artagnan’s blade was parried and then he was once more on the defensive, lifting his sword high to block the blade directed as his neck. As he lifted his sword and absorbed the shock of the other man’s hit, the three could see the wince of pain that flashed across his face and the Gascon’s opponent immediately lowered his blade. The recruit stepped forward, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s upper arm, leaning in to confirm that he hadn’t hurt his tutor. To Athos’ eyes the gesture seemed too intimate, speaking of a care and concern that had been previously demonstrated only by the three of them and seemed out of place coming from this _stranger_ ; a glance at his two friends showed similar looks of consternation.

 

The two men were turning now, the recruit having placed a hand at the Gascon’s back, guiding him toward the table which the four usually shared, and again Athos rankled at the familiarity the action suggested. It was at this point that d’Artagnan’s face came up and he noticed the three men staring at him, his heart fluttering as his eyes landed on the face of his mentor, no longer pale and sickly, hovering at the brink of death, but with his previous strength returned to him, blue eyes brightly blazing from beneath his hat. Regardless of his previous concerns, he couldn’t help the wide grin that split his face at the sight and found himself striding swiftly toward the three men, bringing corresponding smiles to Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces, while Athos could feel his lips helplessly quirking upwards as well. d’Artagnan stopped in front of Athos, suddenly uncertain and he swallowed thickly as he took in the sight of his mentor. Licking dry lips, he said, “Welcome back. I’m glad to see you feeling better.”

 

Athos frowned slightly at the oddly restrained greeting, the Gascon unable to hide the somewhat haunted look in his eyes, and he was reminded that the same look had been worn by his two friends during the first few days of their journey home, speaking of the fear both men had held at the severity of his condition. Keeping his tone intentionally neutral, Athos replied, “I believe the same can be said about you. From what I recall of our captivity, your condition was dire.”

 

The Gascon ducked his head, seemingly embarrassed at having been reminded of his time in the Baron’s prison, and Porthos stepped forward to clasp his arm in greeting. “You’re lookin’ good, lad.” d’Artagnan couldn’t help but return the larger man’s infectious grin and only smiled more widely as Aramis stepped forward to place hands on both his shoulders, pulling him in for a brief hug before pushing him back again to cast a critical eye over his face and upper body.

 

“That shoulder’s still giving you some trouble. Should you be sparring yet?” he asked, a mildly concerned look on his face.

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the man’s predictability, a part of him reminded that he’d previously missed his friends’ doting, “It’s fine, Aramis. The physician cleared me for light duty and that means it needs to be strengthened.” At the medic’s unconvinced look, he added, “I haven’t been overdoing it, honestly; you can ask Brunet if you don’t believe me.” At his words, the recruit, who’d been hovering in the background, stepped forward with an easy smile. “Brunet, this is Athos, Aramis and Porthos.”

 

Brunet nodded to each man in turn receiving a small smile from Aramis, a return head nod from Porthos and a somewhat sombre look from Athos, which made the young man shift uncomfortably. “I’ve heard much about you,” he hesitated, “from the others. I’m glad to see you back safely.”  

 

Athos looked questioningly at d’Artagnan, still uncertain of Brunet’s presence and longing to get the young man alone so they could clear the air between them. “The Captain assigned Brunet to me while you were away,” the Gascon explained. While it remained unsaid, Athos grasped the subtext of his Captain’s actions and sent a prayer of thanks to the man for his insightfulness at occupying the young man’s mind so he would not have too much time to brood.

 

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement, “I’m sure Brunet has learned much under your tutelage.” He locked gazes with d’Artagnan as he spoke, the words meant specifically for him, and Athos watched as the young man’s eyes lost a little of their haunted quality at the words of praise. Unwilling to break the moment, but seeing little choice, he stated, “We’d best report to the Captain; he’s been more than patient in waiting for our return.”

 

Athos turned on his heel and ascended the stairs, Aramis and Porthos at his back. d’Artagnan watched him go and was pleased to see nothing but the slightest of limps present as his previously wounded leg bore his weight as he climbed. “You must be glad to have them back,” Brunet commented, not missing the look of longing on the Gascon’s face as he watched them enter Treville’s office.

 

d’Artagnan nodded, finding that he was genuinely happy to have his friends back, resolute that they would soon have their conversation and find a way to return to the easy comfort they’d shared earlier. “Surprising that they didn’t send word back earlier to let the Captain know they were on their way. Although, I suppose they would have reached an agreement with Treville about their return and no one else needed to know.” The Gascon frowned at Brunet’s words, realizing now that he knew little of the arrangements that had been made between the Captain and his friends, and he felt a twinge of annoyance at the fact that he’d had to wait until they’d shown up, having had no idea when they might return. d’Artagnan’s discomfort apparently went unnoticed by Brunet, who was still speaking, “I suppose they would be afforded a certain amount of leniency as well, given that they are three of the best Musketeers in the regiment. There’s few in Paris who haven’t heard of them - the inseparables.”

 

Before the Gascon could say anything, he heard the door to Treville’s office slam as it closed and watched as his three friends continued along the walkway above, moving away from the stairs to the courtyard. Intending to follow, d’Artagnan began to sheath his sword but his hand was stayed by Aramis’ head shake before he proceeded to follow the other two toward the dormitories. The Gascon tried to keep a neutral face, reasoning that the men had just returned from a long ride and would likely be wanting to wash and get into clean clothes. “Huh,” Brunet commented, watching the three men walk out of sight, “surprised they didn’t ask you to come back to their rooms, especially after everything that’s happened. Guess they must be tired, eh?”

 

d’Artagnan managed a low grunt of assent before turning toward the training area once more, raising his sword to indicate his readiness to Brunet. If the Gascon’s blows were a bit harder now than before, the recruit didn’t comment but warmth swelled inside the man’s belly at having rekindled the Musketeer’s inner doubts.

* * *

The three friends had been grateful to be back at the garrison and, while they were road-weary and longed for a change of clothes, their first stop had been at the infirmary, Treville insisting that Athos be checked to confirm he was healing well. Aramis and Porthos had been ordered to accompany the less-than-impressed Musketeer, the Captain knowing fully Athos’ propensity to shirk tasks related to his own health. The physician had confirmed Aramis’ own opinion that Athos’ leg was mending well, as was proven by how well the man had been riding and walking in recent days; the medic was even comfortable that he’d be removing the stitches from the older man’s leg in the next few days. When they’d finished and exited back onto the walkway overlooking the courtyard, d’Artagnan and his partner were nowhere in sight, apparently having finished for the day. The three men traded a look, deciding to check d’Artagnan’s room, which they were disappointed to find empty. Another round of silent communication had the men separating to go to their individual rooms, planning to meet back later for the evening meal.

 

Aramis and Porthos were the first to return, meeting up at the base of the stairs in the courtyard, Aramis motioning meaningfully with his head to the table, “Looks like d’Artagnan and his new friend have beaten us here.” Porthos gave a noncommittal grunt that could have meant anything and Aramis rolled his eyes good-naturedly before leading the way over.

 

“Good evening, gentleman,” Aramis offered a broad smile, tipping his head slightly before taking a seat next to the Gascon, Porthos settling across from him, next to Brunet.

 

d’Artagnan smiled at them both as he pushed bowls over to both men, “Will Athos be joining us tonight?”

 

“That was the plan,” Porthos confirmed, taking his first mouthful of stew, grateful to be enjoying Serge’s cooking once more.

 

“So what happened after we left,” d’Artagnan asked, curious to know what had transpired.

 

Aramis and Porthos shared a look, the latter shrugging as he said, “Not much to tell. Athos was doing poorly and then he got better. When he was strong enough, we set out.” He dipped a chunk of bread into his stew, popping it into his mouth, clearly believing nothing more needed to be said.

 

d’Artagnan threw him a scowl, turning to Aramis instead. At the Gascon’s look, Aramis nodded, “That was pretty much it.” Neither man was intentionally trying to upset the young man, but they’d agreed that sharing all of the details of Athos’ recovery would only worry the boy unnecessarily.

 

d’Artagnan was drawing a deep breath in preparation to push for more information when Athos joined them, sitting next to Aramis and nodding his thanks as the man pushed a bowl of stew towards him. “So, d’Artagnan, when will you be cleared for full duty?” Aramis asked, keeping the conversation light in front of their fifth, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to bustle the Gascon away to a tavern with the others so they might lubricate their conversation with several glasses of wine.

 

Surprisingly, it was Brunet who answered, “He should be good next week and he’s promised to take me with him on a mission.” Aramis smiled politely at the recruit’s enthusiasm, remembering well d’Artagnan’s own eagerness to join them.  

 

Where Aramis’ reaction was polite, Athos narrowed his eyes at the recruit as he informed him, “It is unlikely that the Captain will send you on a mission with a fully-fledged Musketeer until you’ve earned your commission.”

 

Brunet’s face fell but d’Artagnan was quick to correct his mentor, “Athos, that’s not true. I went on several missions with you before I was commissioned, and Treville often allows recruits to accompany some of the others as part of their training.”

 

Athos looked annoyed and it was Porthos who spoke up to defuse the dispute, “What Athos means is that we usually get assigned the more difficult missions, so it’d be unusual if the Captain let a recruit tag along.” He gave d’Artagnan a hard look as he finished, warning him to drop the matter. With a mildly irritated huff, the Gascon spooned a bite into his mouth and stayed silent.

 

When he’d finished chewing, he turned to Athos, asking, “So, what happened after we left you at my uncle’s house.”

 

Athos threw a glance to his two friends who indicated wordlessly that they’d already answered, “I’m afraid there’s little I can add but as you can see, Aramis and Porthos took good care of me.”

 

d’Artagnan lifted his glass, taking a long pull of wine as he realized that none of the three were willing to share more details with him. “What have _you_ been doing while we were away?” Aramis asked, sensing the need to change the topic.

 

Again, it was Brunet who replied in the Gascon’s stead, an action that had Athos gritting his teeth lightly as he tried to listen politely to the boy who was starting to grate on his nerves. “d’Artagnan has been working with me the entire time since he’s been back. Some of the things he’s taught me have been incredible; it’s clear that you’ve done a good job of helping him be a great Musketeer who doesn’t have to worry about being on his own.”

 

Athos looked up sharply at the recruit’s comment, “What do you mean, _being on his own_?”

 

d’Artagnan gave the man a confused look as he responded, “He didn’t mean anything by it, Athos. You know there are times when all of us are required to complete solitary missions.”

 

Sensing the awkwardness that was beginning to descend on the group, Aramis quickly added his own neutral agreement, plastering another smile on his face, “Of course, we’ve all had our fair share of solitary missions; it’s a rite of passage for every soldier.” From there Aramis and Porthos sustained the conversation, keeping it light by sharing a few stories from their own early years of soldiering. With their meal finished, Athos rose followed quickly by Aramis and Porthos, expecting their fourth to follow but d’Artagnan remained seated, sipping at his half-empty glass of wine. Seeing that a more direct approach would be required, Athos cleared his throat and stated, “We’re going to the tavern tonight; will you join us?”

 

One of the things he’d missed most was the camaraderie he shared with his friends; the simple pleasure of sharing a meal or the banter they enjoyed over a game of cards. Athos’ invitation to join them reminded him of how things had been before and he stood without thinking, ready to follow them. As the Gascon rose, Brunet followed, and Aramis uneasily read the boy’s intention to go with them. d’Artagnan had noticed as well and looked at his friends, clearly unwilling to ask the young man to stay behind as he clapped a hand on Brunet’s shoulder and they both moved in behind the other three, making an “after you” gesture with his free hand. Sharing a glance, the three men turned forward and led the way through the garrison gates, their feet finding their way easily to their favorite tavern, which was also conveniently located closest to both the garrison and Athos’ rooms. They found a table near the back and were soon on their third bottle of wine, Porthos having drifted off to join a card game and Athos leaving them soon after to take a table to himself, working his way steadily through his own bottle of wine. Aramis found himself surprisingly as the third-wheel, d’Artagnan and Brunet conversing comfortably about everything from their upbringing in Gascony to their training in the regiment. Having little to contribute, Aramis excused himself shortly after the other two, having caught the eye of a friendly barmaid. Brunet looked around the room, eyes shifting from one Musketeer to the next as he commented, “Bit odd that.” At d’Artagnan’s confused look he explained, “To invite us here and then leave us sitting by ourselves. I would have thought they’d be looking forward to some time with you after all that’s happened.” Brunet tipped his glass to his lips as he watched the Gascon’s face for any reaction to his comment.

 

It was subtle, but d’Artagnan looked longingly at each of his friends, noting sadly that Brunet was correct and each man had gone off after their individual pursuits, their actions an eerie reminder of how he’d found them on the morning he’d received his uncle’s letter. While it wasn’t unusual for them to part ways at some point, they would typically forgo such activities on their first evening back together, preferring instead to share the time in each other’s company as a way of celebrating each man’s safe return. Their decision to break from tradition tonight left the young man troubled and wondering why they’d decided to abandon him when they’d seemed quite happy to see him earlier. Pushing aside his hurt feelings, d’Artagnan drained his glass and stood as he said, “They’ve had a hard time of things lately and each man relaxes in his own way. It’ll be an early morning tomorrow so I’m going to head back.”

 

With a smile of satisfaction on his face Brunet jumped up, saying to the Gascon’s already retreating back, “I’ll walk with you.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos pinched his nose at the headache that was springing forth as his body protested its mistreatment, and he sighed heavily at having another regret to add to the list of things for which he’d need to make amends when he spoke with his protégé.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sharing your thoughts about Brunet's appearance in the last chapter - I have to say there were some very lovely ideas offered about how to get rid of him, showing just how creative this fandom can be! Anyway, for those of you desperately in need of some brotherly moments, hope you enjoy this next installment!

It took over an hour for the three to take notice of their missing Gascon, Aramis having returned to the table to find it occupied by other patrons. Porthos was still engaged in a game of cards, his throaty laughter an indication that luck was favoring him, while Athos sat morosely alone, finishing off another bottle of wine. Berating himself quietly at having allowed himself to be distracted, Aramis moved to stand next to Porthos, a gentle hand on one shoulder enough to indicate that he should excuse himself from the game. He pulled a chair over to Athos’ table and waited for the large man to join them as he looked their leader over appraisingly, deciding immediately that the man had drunk enough. As he waited, a barmaid came by, placing a fresh bottle on the table, which Aramis snagged before Athos could make a clumsy reach for it. “You’ve had enough,” Aramis stated at Athos’ wine-soaked glare and was gladdened when the other man didn’t argue. Snagging Athos’ empty glass, Aramis poured from the full bottle, placing it onto the floor at his feet lest it tempt the older man while still in sight. He took a sip of the wine, a sour expression appearing on his face at the flavour. “Ugh, how you can drink this swill is a mystery to me, my friend,” Aramis groused.

 

They sat companionably for several minutes as they waited for Porthos, Aramis taking another couple of sips of wine before the taste became too much to stomach and he left the glass on the table, still half-full. When Porthos made his way over, Aramis stood, motioning with one had at Athos, “We’ll need to make sure he gets home alright and our youngest has already deserted us.”

 

Porthos looked around in surprise at their missing fourth and then nodded, leaning forward to grab one of Athos’ arms, while Aramis did the same, the two friends pulling their leader to his feet, each holding one of the man’s arms in order to support him. Fortunately Athos was a pliable drunk and he willingly allowed himself to be man-handled out of the tavern and onto the dark, Parisian streets, the two men guiding him towards home. As they walked, Porthos looked over at Aramis, “When did d’Artagnan leave?”

 

“Not sure. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t actually see him go,” Aramis confessed.

 

The medic’s words brought a frown to Porthos’ face, “Thought you were at the table with him?”   

 

Aramis’ face turned sheepish as he explained with a smile, “A member of the fairer sex needed my attention and who I am to turn her away?”

 

Porthos snorted, knowing well his friend’s predilection for the warm and willing embrace of an attractive woman. Aramis stumbled and Porthos compensated, steadying Athos as the other man got his feet beneath him once more. “You alright?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the man whose movements typically possessed a grace and fluidity that others envied.

 

Aramis nodded, surprised at his misstep, “Yes, fine, just a loose cobblestone or something.”

 

“Maybe you’re suffering from the same affliction as Athos,” Porthos teased, knowing that Aramis seldom drank heavily.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, swaying once more as his feet seemed to be growing heavy, ignoring the commands his brain was sending. The longer they walked, the more the ground seemed to shift uneasily beneath his feet, a thick fog settling on his brain, causing the edges of his vision to blur unnervingly.

 

Porthos’ face grew sombre as he watched his friend grow increasingly more unsteady, “Aramis, are you drunk?”

 

“No, don’t think so,” Aramis slurred, his steps slowing as he stumbled again, this time dropping to his knees, bringing the other two men down with him. He was aware that his knees had buckled, but his limbs no longer seemed to be his own, unwilling to obey even the simplest of commands from his brain.

 

This got Athos’ attention and, while he was too drunk to navigate the streets on his own, he was still aware enough to realize that something was very wrong. Porthos ducked out from under Athos’ arm and moved to kneel next to his other friend who had slipped to the ground and was blinking fuzzily up at the sky above, trying once more to bring his surroundings back into focus. “Aramis, what’s going on?”

 

Athos was now kneeling on the medic’s other side, adrenaline working to help clear his mind. Placing a hand on the medic’s face, his other planted firmly on the ground to brace himself, he forced the man to look at him, “Aramis, what’s wrong?”

 

The seriousness of Athos’ tone seemed to cut through some of the haze muddling the medic’s mind and he managed a couple of badly slurred words, “Poison…pois’ned…” The effort of speaking seemed to have exhausted him, and the two men watched as Aramis’ eyes rolled lazily as he sought desperately to clear his sight, having recognized his friend’s voice above him, but unable to see anything more than the indistinct outline of his face.  

 

“Aramis,” Porthos gently tapped his friend’s cheek in an effort to bring him back to awareness, but the most he received for his efforts was a low moan as Aramis’ eyes fluttered closed. “Dammit,” he growled, fear moving him to act. “Help me get him up,” he ordered Athos, already pulling the medic’s arm up and over his shoulder in preparation to bring the man to his feet. Athos wasted none of his limited energy and coordination on arguing and simply ducked under Aramis’ other arm, their friend hanging limply between them as they trudged as quickly as possible to Athos’ rooms. Moving swiftly, they positioned the insensible man on Athos’ bed, the older man sitting down beside him.

 

Porthos scrubbed a hand through his curls, racking his brain as he cursed the fact that Aramis was unable to help them with his treatment, “Athos, what was it that Aramis used the last time someone was poisoned?” Athos looked at him blankly, still feeling the effects of his overindulgence, his mind moving slowly as if mired in thick mud. “Come on, Athos,” Porthos growled, “what did ‘e give the man?”

 

Athos’ head hung heavily from his neck as he tried to rally his thoughts, desperately grasping for the memories that Porthos sought. He looked up as the name came to him, “Castor oil.”

 

Porthos’ head shot up at the man’s words, “You think he’ll have some in his room?”

 

“I don’t know, but it’s the most likely place for us to look,” Athos confessed, the idea of speaking with the garrison physician not even occurring to his muddled brain.

 

Porthos looked over at Aramis, laying limp and pale on the bed, obviously torn between leaving his friend and going to search for the antidote. “Go, Porthos, I’ll take care of him,” Athos ordered, still too unsteady to navigate the streets on his own but aware enough to care for their friend until the larger man returned. Porthos gave a short nod, exiting immediately and throwing himself into a run, resolving to make the trip to and from the garrison as quickly as possible. His mind swirled with questions as he ran, unable to fathom how and why someone had poisoned his friend, and consumed with fear that they might not be able to save the man. Soon he was approaching the garrison gates, shouting a quick greeting to the men on guard duty so they wouldn’t try to stop him, and he skidded to the base of the stairs, taking them two at a time. The sound of his heavy footfalls brought Treville out of his office, catching the Musketeer with a hand on the larger man’s arm.

 

“Porthos, what’s going on?” the Captain asked, immediately seeing the desperation in the man’s eyes.

 

Porthos panted for breath, pausing only long enough to answer, “Aramis ‘as been poisoned. Need to get castor oil from ‘is room.”

 

Treville moved his hand, allowing the man to go on his way, calling after him, “If you can’t locate any, check with the physician. Let me know what happens.”

 

He stayed on the walkway outside his office waiting for Porthos to reappear and then watched him run back through the gates into the city once more, assuming he’d been successful in locating the medicine he’d sought. If one of his men had been poisoned, especially one of the inseparables, he knew that none of them would rest until the man was well again. With a sigh he returned to his office to pour a glass of brandy, knowing there would be no rest for him that night until he knew that Aramis was alright.

 

Despite his size, Porthos moved quickly through the streets, navigating around people effortlessly the way he did during his earlier years in the Court of Miracles. He flung himself through the entrance to Athos’ rooms, the door slamming loudly against the wall as he threw it open, only to make a grab for it afterwards and slam it closed behind him. “How is he?” he asked breathlessly as he crossed to the bed where Athos still sat next to their friend.

 

“Still with us,” Athos replied, pushing himself to a standing position so Porthos could have his spot. “Did you get it?”

 

Porthos wordlessly handed Athos a small bottle as he sank down beside the ill man, placing a hand on the man’s face and noting the clamminess of the medic’s skin. Meanwhile, Athos had poured a half-cup of wine and added a few drops of castor oil, swirling the contents a moment before bringing it back to the bed and handing the cup to Porthos. The large man took it and waited for Athos to make his way around to the other side of the bed, lifting Aramis’ head slightly. Porthos squeezed Aramis’ jaw to open it, gave a last uncertain look to Athos and then began slowly pouring the wine mixture into his friend’s mouth. It took a combination of pouring, holding the man’s mouth closed and stroking his throat to get the entire contents of the cup into the unconscious sharpshooter and, when they were finished, Porthos released a shaky sigh. Sitting back, he looked at the older man, “Now what?”

 

Athos wiped a hand across his face, ignoring its minute tremor, “Now we wait.” Porthos heard the resignation in his friend’s voice and cast a critical eye over the man, noting his pale features and red-rimmed eyes, recognizing that Athos was now dealing with the combined effects of too much wine fueled by anxiety induced adrenaline.

 

“Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if anything changes,” Porthos suggested, hoping that some sleep would help the man get his wits about him rather than giving him a second person to have to care for.

 

Athos looked down at their still friend before giving a sloppy nod, pulling himself up with the help of the wall and stumbling over to his table where he sat down in one chair and rested his feet on another. Porthos picked himself up as well, snagging a chair to place next to the bed along with a basin of water and a clean cloth. He dragged the wet cloth lightly across Aramis’ face and neck, removing the sheen of sweat that sat there, murmuring softly to his friend to awake. There was little else to be done since Athos had managed to get Aramis out of his doublet and boots earlier so Porthos sat back to wait.

 

Within the hour Porthos was pleased to see some signs of life from his friend, the medic beginning to toss restlessly on the bed. Porthos soothed him as best he could, but it soon became apparent that the medic would not be returning to the bliss of unconsciousness any time soon as he rolled his head weakly to the side, heaving helplessly. Porthos pulled him partially upright and supported him as his stomach rebelled, holding his head over top of the chamber pot that sat on the floor next to the bed. When he’d finished, he helped Aramis take a few sips of water and rinse his mouth before allowing him to fall back onto the mattress, curling helplessly over his stomach in obvious distress. The first bout was unfortunately not the last and by the third round of vomiting, Athos was also at Aramis’ side, rubbing soothing circles on his friend’s back as the man moaned and trembled in between rounds of illness. Hours later, all three men were exhausted but Aramis had finally fallen into a somewhat deeper sleep, his moans of distress and need to empty his stomach having passed, and both Porthos and Athos breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Casting an eye toward the window, Porthos was surprised to see the first pink streaks of dawn heralding the arrival of a new day. He tugged at his curls before motioning with his head, “Morning, we’d best report to Treville.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, already moving to stand, “You stay here; the walk will do me good. I’ll bring breakfast back but try and get some sleep while I’m gone.” He was deeply troubled by the fact that someone had tried to poison one of their own and hoped that the walk would help him clear the remaining cobwebs from his mind, enabling him to assess the situation more effectively than what he was capable of currently.

 

Porthos gave a smile of thanks at not having to leave his friend’s side and Athos clasped his shoulder briefly as he passed by on his way out the door. The streets were still largely empty, the hour too early for most to be out and about, and Athos breathed deeply of the fresh air, not yet polluted by the scents of emptied chamber pots and unwashed bodies. The night they’d spent had felt incredibly long and he was grateful for the opportunity to be away from the staleness of his rooms, the smell of Aramis’ sickness still permeating the air.

 

The garrison was also quiet even though he knew that Serge would be up already, preparing food for the men who would soon be up. He headed directly for Treville’s office and, with a short rap of his knuckles on the Captain’s door, Athos received permission to enter and found the man up and waiting for him.

 

“How is he?” Treville asked, knowing that either way Athos would be in a hurry to return.

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head, “He seems better after the castor oil. I believe it’s safe to say that he’s purged the poison from his system although he’ll be sore for a couple days.”

 

The Captain nodded, “Consider yourselves excused from duty for the next two days. Any idea how this happened?”

 

“No, and Aramis hasn’t been aware enough since it happened to ask him,” Athos stated regretfully. “As soon as he’s able, we’ll see what insights he can provide.”

 

“Good, take care of him,” Treville ordered, “and yourselves.” He knew well how these men would put aside their own needs to take care of one another and wanted to make sure that all of them rested.

 

Athos gave a tired quirk of his lips at the Captain’s concern before exiting and making his way to the kitchen where Serge provided him with enough food for both breakfast and lunch so they wouldn’t have to leave his rooms until evening. He hurried back quickly, unwilling to be away from his friends for too long and needing to confirm Aramis’ recovery, something that would only be truly possible once the man woke. His entrance was far quieter than Porthos’ was a few hours earlier, and he winced to himself at the apology he would owe to his landlady. Both men were quietly dozing so he placed the food he carried onto the table and retook his seat, munching absently on his breakfast as he waited for the men to awake. Porthos had leaned back in his chair, placing his feet onto the edge of the bed, and he snored softly as his head rested against the wall behind him. Aramis lay quietly and Athos was pleased to see that the man’s features had softened, the pain from earlier having been erased after expelling the poison which had him tied up in knots for hours, his moans of agony tearing at his friends’ hearts. 

 

Athos acknowledged that he feared more for the lives of his friends than he did for his own, and their pain caused him to ache more fiercely than any injury he might sustain. It was for this reason that his brothers scolded him for being reckless, but he knew that he was no such thing; his decisions to act were calculated and predictable, performed in the protection of those who were dearest to him. Now, someone had threatened one of his family and Athos was resolute that they would discover the perpetrator, someone so cowardly and vile as to strike from afar rather than challenging Aramis openly and with honor. The thoughts led him to consider their youngest and, with a pang of guilt, he realized that the Gascon was completely unaware of what had transpired during the night. As they’d cared for their ill friend, there had been little opportunity for either man to leave and send word, but he probably should have stopped by the young man’s room before leaving the garrison. Athos pinched his nose at the headache that was springing forth as his body protested its mistreatment, and he sighed heavily at having another regret to add to the list of things for which he’d need to make amends when he spoke with his protégé.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This morning’s sword strike had been another stroke of good luck as he’d taken advantage of the Gascon’s distraction to cause the painful wound. While it was nowhere near life-threatening, it would hopefully make d’Artagnan sore and irritable, and considerably less tolerant of his friends’ actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the folks who have been reading and commenting on this story - I really enjoyed hearing your thoughts! d'Artagnan is back in this chapter as things continue to unfold. Hope you enjoy!

As had become their habit, d’Artagnan and Brunet met for breakfast, the former eating slowly as he waited for his three friends to join them while the garrison came to life around them. As the hour grew later, it became apparent that the other three would not be showing and the Gascon swallowed at the hollow feeling in his stomach which made the food he’d eaten sit heavily. He tried to act normally as Brunet kept up a steady stream of conversation, nodding and replying when appropriate, but his mind was elsewhere, wondering at how quickly the three had yet again deserted him.

 

Their actions at the tavern the previous night had stung when he’d realized that his closest friends had forsaken him, going off to follow their own interests rather than staying in his company. Although he and Brunet had returned to the garrison relatively early, d’Artagnan had gotten little sleep, sitting in his room for hours as he nursed a glass of brandy and contemplated his future. When he’d met the three, he’d been overjoyed at their ability to make him feel at home and pleasantly surprised that they held no ill will toward him for his attack on Athos. Even more incredibly, they’d indicated that they were in his debt and had given freely of their time and knowledge to further his skills, thereby improving his chances of gaining a commission. Time and again they’d proven their constancy to him, and he to them, through the various missions they’d completed, and by safeguarding each other throughout. Surely he hadn’t imagined the depth of devotion that existed between them.  

 

d’Artagnan’s melancholy musings were interrupted by Treville’s arrival and he stood and followed Brunet as the rest of the men mustered around them. The Gascon did his best to listen to the Captain’s orders but found that he’d entirely tuned out, too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay attention until he found Treville standing directly in front of him, expectantly awaiting a response.

 

Swallowing nervously, d’Artagnan said, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

 

Treville’s brow furrowed as his eyes narrowed, “I said, why aren’t you with the others? I told Athos you were excused for two days until Aramis was fit for duty.”

 

A look of confusion crossed the young man’s face, quickly turning into panic as he absorbed the man’s words. “Until he’s fit for duty? What happened to Aramis?”

 

“Weren’t you with him last night?” the Captain asked, shocked to hear that the young man hadn’t spent the evening with his three friends.

 

Biting his lip, d’Artagnan replied, “I went with them to the tavern but left early. Please, what’s wrong with Aramis?”

 

Softening his tone at the news he needed to share, the Captain explained, “He was poisoned last night, but he’s alright now. They were able to administer a cure and I understand he’s just tired and sore now. I believe they spent the night at Athos’ rooms.” He could see d’Artagnan’s anxiety, his eyes darting toward the garrison gates and waited for the young man to make his request.

 

“Permission to go check on him, Captain?” d’Artagnan asked, pleased that he’d been able to keep his voice from wavering even though his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

 

At Treville’s nod, the Gascon turned on his heel toward the gate, Brunet pausing to get the Captain’s permission as well before he followed closely behind. They walked in silence, d’Artagnan setting a quick pace which was just shy of running, Brunet following a step behind. When they reached Athos’ door the Gascon raised a hand to knock, pausing momentarily with doubt, wondering if he would be welcomed by the men inside. Deciding that it was worth the risk to know that Aramis was alright, he rapped lightly and waited. Moments later the door opened a crack and he was greeted by Athos’ drawn face, which seemed to lighten for a second upon seeing him before falling again. “d’Artagnan,” Athos spoke softly, “what are you doing here?”

 

d’Artagnan’s stomach fluttered as he stammered, “The Captain…he told me…that is, he said Aramis had been poisoned.” Taking a steadying breath, he collected his thoughts, asking the question uppermost in his mind, “Is he alright?”

 

Athos’ lips quirked into a small smile as he opened the door further, motioning over his shoulder at the bed, “You can see for yourself.”

 

d’Artagnan walked slowly to the bed, unaware that Brunet had also come inside, Athos closing the door behind them. Aramis lay quietly on the bed, a blanket pulled to his chest which rose evenly with every inhale. His face was pale and slightly pinched, suggesting the man was still in some pain, but overall he didn’t look like a man about to die. Turning to look at Athos again, he whispered, “He’ll be alright?”

 

Athos nodded, moving to stand beside him and placing a hand on one shoulder. d’Artagnan couldn’t help himself as he found himself shifting closer, leaning into the other man’s comforting touch. “What happened?” he breathed out, eyes locked once more on the sharpshooter’s face.

 

“I’m not sure. We were leaving the tavern when he began to stumble and grew weak. By the time we carried him here, he’d lost awareness. It was pure chance that he managed to tell us he’d been poisoned so we could administer some castor oil. It worked, but he was up most of the night as his body rid itself of the toxin,” Athos explained.

 

Turning back to his mentor, d’Artagnan declared, “I’ll stay here with you so you can get some rest. You must be exhausted after last night.”

 

Athos seemed ready to accept his offer but, as his eyes darted to a spot behind d’Artagnan, he shook his head, “No, there’s nothing you can do here. Treville has taken us off duty for two days and by then Aramis should be feeling more like himself. Why don’t you go back to the garrison and continue your training with Brunet, and then bring us something for dinner tonight.” Glancing in Aramis’ direction, he added, “Maybe some broth for Aramis as I’m not sure how happy he’ll be at the sight of food.”

 

“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying,” the Gascon countered, uneasy about the idea of spending the day away from his friends, especially when another of them had nearly died.

 

Athos nodded, “Yes, go now and I’ll see you back here tonight.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a reluctant nod in return, catching Brunet’s eye as he moved toward the door, the recruit leading the way out. They wove their way through the crowded Parisian streets, the Gascon’s feet following the path back automatically as Brunet began speaking again. “You must be relieved that he’s alright.” d’Artagnan gave a nod and a brief smile as they walked. “Considerate, too, that they let you sleep last night.” The Gascon’s smile slipped a little; there was no place he would have rather been than by his brother’s side as he fought for his life. And what if he hadn’t survived – could he have lived with the knowledge that his friends had decided to let him sleep, thus depriving him of the opportunity to be with Aramis during his last hours? “Surprised that they didn’t let you know this morning, though, when they reported to the Captain,” Brunet continued.

 

The comment made d’Artagnan momentarily stumble, his step hitching as Brunet highlighted an ugly truth. The men could be forgiven for not sending word last night but clearly one of them had spoken with the Captain this morning, otherwise how could he have known. Further, Treville had seemed surprised to find out that d’Artagnan was unaware of his friend’s state, having rightly assumed that the Gascon would have been at Aramis’ side along with his other two brothers. The idea that d’Artagnan might have remained unaware of his friend’s fate if it had not been for the Captain rankled him and made him stumble once more. Brunet reached out a steadying hand and, as the Gascon looked up, he saw concern in the recruit’s gaze. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan breathed, then once more, his voice stronger. “Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about our training today.” Brunet nodded, releasing his arm and falling behind a half-step as he watched the shaken Musketeer ahead of him, a ghost of a smile passing over his face as they walked. 

* * *

Porthos opened one eye, having a quick look around before opening the second and easing himself upright in the chair, planting his feet back on the ground. As he pushed himself up, he saw Athos watching him with a hint of amusement, and he brought his chair to sit down at the table across from the older man. “How much did you hear?” Athos asked once his friend was settled.

 

Porthos grinned unrepentantly as he helped himself to some food, “All of it.” Athos nodded, unsurprised. “Why did you tell him go to?’

 

Athos took a deep breath, reluctant to admit his dislike of the recruit who d’Artagnan had been training, “Brunet was with him.”

 

Porthos nodded knowingly, chewing and swallowing a bite before he spoke, “Yeah, that’s why I found myself a card game last night. Woulda preferred a quiet night with the boy so we could talk, but Brunet seems to be d’Artagnan’s shadow.”

 

Athos tilted his head in agreement, “There’s something about him that… _unsettles_ me.”

 

“Know what you mean. Used to happen all the time in the Court – there’s some that you knew you could trust and others…” he left the rest unspoken, both having met enough unsavoury sorts in their days to trust their instincts when it came to sizing up other men.

 

“Unfortunately there’s nothing concrete I can point to and d’Artagnan seems to genuinely enjoy his company. I fear that with things strained between us as they are, the boy might believe we’re being spiteful and dismiss our concerns outright.” Athos confessed.

 

“Nonsense,” a gravelly voice interjected, and both men looked up to find Aramis awake and watching them. “He’s far more sensible than you give him credit for.” He broke off to cough softly, face screwing up in pain as the action pulled on his tender stomach muscles and aggravated his raw throat. Athos and Porthos were moving before the coughing jag had ended, the larger man lifting him gently upright while Athos brought over a cup of water. When he’d had a few sips, Aramis slumped boneless into his friend’s broad chest, a wan smile on his face. “It’s good to be alive,” he said, his voice still hoarse from the intense vomiting he’d suffered. “Last night I wasn’t certain I’d be waking again.”

 

Porthos brushed Aramis’ curls back from his face as the man laid his head on his shoulder, “Hush, now, it’ll take more than a bit of poison to end you.”

 

Athos reached a hand forward to rest on his friend’s leg as he asked, “How are you feeling?”

 

Aramis gave a half-hearted shrug, “I’m alive, that’s the important thing. Everything else is secondary.”

 

Athos lips turned upwards in fondness for his friend, happy to have the man safe and relatively healthy, “How about you humour your friends?”

 

“Who, by the way, tended to you tirelessly,” Porthos teased with a grin.

 

Aramis’ smile widened at Porthos’ ribbing before he sighed and said, “I’m sore and tired, but it’s nothing that a little rest and the care of a kind woman can’t cure.”

 

Porthos snorted, “I’m not puttin’ on a dress or cuddlin’ with you, and you’re not leaving this bed until we say so.”

 

Aramis seemed ready to protest, but despite the undercurrent of humour in Porthos’ words, he could see the serious look on Athos’ face which warned not to argue. Releasing a small huff, Aramis gave in, “Fine, I’ll make do with your company for now.”

 

Athos squeezed Aramis’ leg as he offered, “We have some broth; do you think you can manage it?”

 

Aramis wasn’t really hungry but knew he’d have to eat before he could escape his well-meaning brothers. As Athos went to collect the broth, he rolled his eyes upwards to look at Porthos, “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

 

“He came by when the Captain told him about you, but Athos sent him back to the garrison with Brunet. He’ll be back tonight with dinner,” Porthos replied.

 

Aramis winced and Athos’ face turned concerned as he questioned, “Are you in much pain?”

 

“No,” the sharpshooter responded, taking the cup from Athos. “You know this will only make things harder, don’t you?”

 

Athos looked confused as Aramis took a sip before clarifying, “How would you feel if one of us were gravely ill and we kept it from you? Worse yet, once you had found out, we sent you away again?” Athos’ face fell as he absorbed the other man’s words and he could hear Porthos’ swear softly under his breath. “It was Brunet wasn’t it?”

 

Porthos answered from where he sat, still propping the Spaniard up, “Somethin’s off about him, just can’t put my finger on it.”

 

Aramis nodded in agreement, taking another drink of broth. “So, what are we going to do about it?”

 

“Nothing, for now,” Athos told him, eyes pointedly on the cup in Aramis’ hands, his meaning clear. The man grumbled for a moment before tipping it to his mouth once more. “d’Artagnan will be back tonight and we’ll speak with him then. In the meantime, you’ll tell us all you can about how someone managed to poison you last night so we can bring the person responsible to justice.”

 

Aramis sighed, scrubbing a hand tiredly across his face, “I don’t really know how much I can help, Athos.”

 

Porthos squeezed slightly, giving his friend a hug as he continued to support him against his chest, “Why don’t you start with how you knew you’d been poisoned.”

 

Aramis thought for a few seconds, recalling the weakness that he’d felt as they’d helped Athos to his rooms, the way his senses had dimmed, and the nausea that had flared as he’d lost his balance, sinking to his knees to bring his brothers down with him. He’d known others who’d suffered similar symptoms, only to be dead hours later. “I recognized the symptoms – sudden weakness in the limbs, the dulled senses – it came on too quickly to be anything else.”

 

Athos nodded, trusting Aramis’ medical knowledge. “Any idea how you were poisoned?”

 

The medic cast his mind back once more, speaking aloud as he considered each opportunity, “We all ate the same food at the evening meal and no one else suffered any ill effects.” He paused a moment until receiving a nod from both men, confirming his statement. “We drank from the same bottles of wine at the tavern, unless…” he broke off, seeing in his mind’s eye the new bottle that had been placed on Athos’ table, his hand reaching for it before the other man could and pouring himself a drink before putting the bottle on the ground and out of Athos’ reach. “The last bottle of wine you purchased, I took it before you could and poured a glass.” His frowned as he recalled the odd flavour, “The taste was off. I thought it simply a poor vintage.”

 

Porthos growled as he declared, “It had to be the wine. It’s the only thing we didn’t share.”

 

Athos’ eyes had grown steely as he agreed, “Which begs the question, were you the intended target or was I?”

 

Aramis gave a nod, “So we’ll be looking for someone who holds a grudge against either me or Athos, or possibly both.”

 

Porthos was already shifting to lean Aramis against the wall so he could stand, “We’ll need to talk with the barmaid, see if she can tell us anything.”

 

Athos nodded, but placed a hand on Porthos’ arm to stop him from getting up, “We will, but first we need our rest. We’re all exhausted,” Athos motioned with his head toward Aramis whose eyes were already drooping, “and we’ll be thinking more clearly after we’ve slept.”

 

Porthos gave a return nod, and the two helped Aramis lay back down, Athos retrieving the now empty cup from his friend’s hand before it fell. It took only a minute for the man to fall asleep and the two friends stepped away so they didn’t disturb him. “Should one of us keep watch?” Porthos asked, concerned now that someone might be targeting his friends.

 

“I’ll take first watch,” Porthos looked ready to protest and Athos held a hand up to stop his words. “I’m awake now and it will take me a while before I can sleep. I’ll wake you in three hours so we can switch.”

 

“Alright, three hours,” Porthos confirmed, before retaking his spot from earlier and promptly drifting off.

 

Athos sat down as well, laying his pistol on the table so it would be within his reach and then sat to think through their situation; he hadn’t considered that whoever had poisoned Aramis might have done so mistakenly or that all of them might be in danger. A part of him wanted to return to the garrison immediately to speak with Treville and to warn d’Artagnan to be on his guard, but he couldn’t leave his two friends alone and vulnerable while they slept. The best he could do was to wait until Porthos was awake and hope that nothing else happened in the meantime. 

* * *

When they returned to the garrison, d’Artagnan caught the Captain watching them but he chose to steadfastly ignore the man’s gaze, knowing that if Treville wanted to speak with him, he’d call him up to his office; no such summons came and the Gascon took the man’s inaction to mean that he should go about his business.

 

They began that morning with swords, stretching diligently before matching off against each other as well as various other opponents, d’Artagnan knowing well the danger of becoming accustomed to one partner and adapting only to their moves. d’Artagnan found his mind straying, dull and unfocused as images of Aramis’ pale face interspersed with Athos’ dismissal, ordering him away from his friends. With each passing minute, his tenuous hold on his emotions frayed further until he gasped in pain as Brunet’s downward slash caught him on the arm, slicing through leather and linen to score the skin underneath. The recruit put his sword up immediately, a look of contrition flashing across his face as d’Artagnan gripped his arm tightly with his left hand in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m sorry, I don’t know how that happened,” Brunet apologized as he led the Musketeer over to the table to sit down. In truth, he’d revelled in the fact that the man’s swordplay had grown sloppier throughout the morning until he felt certain that the man would be unable to deflect the blade aimed for his sword arm.  

 

“It’s alright, Brunet, just an accident,” d’Artagnan replied, pulling his arm from the sleeve of his doublet in order to reveal the bleeding gash. He gingerly pulled his sleeve away and grimaced as he took in the deep, four-inch slash that parted the skin of his forearm. “Gah, it’ll need stitches.” Brunet stood, ready to follow the Gascon to the infirmary but the other man stopped him, “No need for both of us to miss out on training. I’ll have this tended and then let the Captain know. Go partner with one of the others and we’ll work on your shooting after lunch.”

 

Brunet gave a nod and watched the man move away, hand once again replaced over the wound. Rather than looking for a sparring partner, the recruit sat down considering the success he’d achieved thus far. When he’d received the letter from the priest in his hometown, he’d wept unabashedly at the loss of his cousin, the man who he’d looked up to like an older brother and the last remaining member of his family. The two had been inseparable growing up and Brunet had dreams of returning home one day to join his cousin, employing the valuable soldiering skills he’d obtain as one of the King’s Musketeers. The two men had been in near constant contact and Brunet had visited just a few months earlier when his uncle had passed away, leaving his cousin as the sole heir and beneficiary of his father’s lands and title. They’d spoken the night of his uncle’s funeral, making plans for the future as they sipped finely aged brandy, his cousin even offering some ideas about how Brunet might use his position in Paris to their advantage before eventually returning home to Gascony. Despite the sadness of the occasion, Brunet had enjoyed the evening immensely, relishing in the warmth of the fire as the two lifelong friends promised to stand at each other’s backs while they made their fortunes, one as a Baron, the other as a Musketeer, and both bound by the common blood that coursed through their veins.

 

Brunet knew of his cousin’s plans and had committed to act as a spy for the man, promising to send word if any Musketeers were dispatched to Gascony to look into the Baron’s affairs. Unfortunately, fate had intervened, sending Brunet on a week-long training exercise outside of Paris, allowing d’Artagnan’s letter to arrive and for the man to depart before anything could be done. Brunet had been in a panic when he’d found out that not only the inseparables had travelled to Gascony, but they’d been followed almost immediately by the Captain himself; there was no way to get a message to his cousin in time to warn of the impending Musketeer attack. He’d tried to hope for the best, knowing well his cousin’s thirst for blood and skill with a sword, having surrounded himself with at least two dozen mercenaries who would be difficult to beat. With nothing else to do, he resigned himself to waiting, hoping to receive a message from his cousin that all was well, or to see a defeated group of Musketeers riding through the garrison gates.

 

When the Musketeers returned, they carried an air of defeat about them but not because they’d lost in battle, but due to the expected loss of one of their own. Brunet had watched as d’Artagnan had been helped from his horse and heard word of the man’s injuries, as well as those of the man they’d had to leave behind, and he prayed that the older Musketeer would at least succumb to his wounds. In the meantime, he approached Treville with a request for one-on-one training, highlighting the obvious similarities between himself and d’Artagnan along with a suggestion that it might provide the healing man with a useful distraction while he awaited news regarding the older Musketeer. The Captain had readily agreed and Brunet had done everything in his power to ingratiate himself into the Gascon’s good graces, knowing that he’d need to be held in good regard if he was to stick around once the others returned.  

 

He’d managed to unearth some of the gossip surrounding the inseparables which suggested that all was not well, many of the Musketeers commenting on the fact that d’Artagnan had initially ridden home alone. Brunet had carefully dropped comments into his conversations with the Gascon, testing the waters, and was pleased to find there was truth to the rumours as was evidenced by the man’s reactions. From there, it was simple enough to follow the Musketeer around, adding his own observations as a way of furthering the rift that seemed to exist, while at the same time he planned his revenge. Athos had been his initial target with the tainted wine, but d’Artagnan seemed just as shaken by Aramis’ near death, compounded by the fact that the three men had been so consumed with the Spaniard’s condition that they’d completely neglected to inform their fourth. This morning’s sword strike had been another stroke of good luck as he’d taken advantage of the Gascon’s distraction to cause the painful wound. While it was nowhere near life-threatening, it would hopefully make d’Artagnan sore and irritable, and considerably less tolerant of his friends’ actions, providing further opportunities for Brunet to divide and weaken the foursome. It might take time, but one way or another, he would have his revenge on the men who had killed his beloved cousin.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the two men moved back into the street, they had no idea that the attack they awaited would come much sooner than they expected, catching all of them unaware.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hate mail for Brunet continues to pour in along with a slew of wonderful suggestions about how he should meet his end. I doubt this chapter will make anyone feel better about him, but it does bring us one step closer to things coming to a head and the boys' "talk". Hope you enjoy!

Fate had smiled on Brunet once more as d’Artagnan’s wound made it difficult for him to use his right arm and provided Brunet with the ideal excuse to help the Gascon bring food to his friends. When the two men knocked on Athos’ door, it was Porthos who greeted them, raising his eyebrow in question when he saw the recruit. As d’Artagnan led the way inside, placing the basket he’d carried on the table, he explained, “I injured my arm during training today and Brunet was kind enough to help me carry everything.”

 

Athos was standing now and Aramis was propped up in bed, his eyes widening at the Gascon’s words, “Injury? How bad?” He was already moving to throw his blanket back, but Athos’ hand on his chest stopped him.

 

“It was nothing, just a slash on my arm from a blow I didn’t quite manage to block,” d’Artagnan assured his friend, no more eager than Athos to have Aramis out of bed to examine his wound. “The physician already took care of it but my arm’s a little sore.”

 

Athos’ good breeding would not allow him to be rude, despite his dislike of the recruit, and he invited the man to dine with them. They moved the table and chairs closer to the bed since they were short of seats anyway, and then passed around the food. “Tell us about yourself, Brunet. How did you come to be at the garrison?” Athos asked, partly out of a need to make polite conversation, but mostly to find out more about the man who’d managed to worm his way into their midst.

 

Brunet plastered a smile on his face, not allowing any of his true feelings to show as he painted a picture of an idealist looking to serve King and country. “I’d always wanted to be a Musketeer and playing with swords was a favorite past-time growing up. When I was older, my cousin taught me how to shoot and my uncle recommended me so I might become a recruit. I can’t tell you how honored I was when the Captain decided to pair me with d’Artagnan as my tutor; I feel like we have so much in common and we’ve found kindred spirits in one another.”

 

Athos titled his head slightly as he drawled, “That is indeed fortunate. Do you feel the same, d’Artagnan?”

 

The Gascon smiled as he blushed a bit, ducking his head for a moment before answering, “It has been enjoyable getting to know a fellow Gascon who shares not only a similar heritage but many of the same strengths as a recruit. I’ve found it to be incredibly satisfying to be in the role of teacher for once, instead of the student.”

 

“Surely your training has not been so terrible that you should seek to escape it?” Aramis questioned with a hint of mirth.

 

"Not at all," d'Artagnan hurried to agree, "but there is a certain fulfillment that comes from passing one’s knowledge on to another.”

 

The three men shared a look of amusement, all of them having experienced the same feelings of satisfaction from training d’Artagnan. Brunet noticed how the atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, a blanket of quiet contentment falling upon its occupants. “Well I, for one, am incredibly grateful to have such a knowledgeable and honorable tutor. I’ve heard stories from others about how some of the recruits are treated; given the worst chores, run ragged doing errands for older Musketeers, all under the guise of apprenticeship. There’s some who really take advantage of their seniority at the garrison.” He kept his tone light and his face neutral, but could see by the men’s faces that his words had struck a sore point.

 

“Now hold on, being treated as an apprentice isn’t all bad and a lot of times there’s useful skills that are bein’ passed along,” Porthos countered, suddenly feeling a need to defend the many times he and his friends had relegated d’Artagnan to that very role.

 

“Oh, I’m certain none of _you_ would ever abuse the privilege. It’s just that there are those who take and take and take, and then give nothing back in return; those are the bad ones,” Brunet clarified.

 

d’Artagnan dropped his eyes to his glass of wine, recalling the many times he’d been given menial tasks which the others didn’t want to do, or run errands for them for a variety of reasons, only to find that when he’d asked for their help in return, it was outside his grasp. Suddenly feeling the need to be alone he drained his glass, clearing his throat before speaking, “It’s been a long day and I’m tired. I hope you’ll excuse me if I turn in early.”

 

He stood as he spoke, pulling his doublet on before securing his weapons at his waist. “d’Artagnan, it’s early yet. Surely you can stay a little longer,” Aramis protested, surprised at the sudden change in mood.

 

The Gascon shook his head, offering a half-smile, “The physician ordered me to bed early; said I might feel tired because of the blood loss.”

 

Porthos stood as d’Artagnan and Brunet headed for the door, “Oi, I’ll walk back with you then. Need to stretch my legs after being cooped up with these two all day.”

 

d’Artagnan stopped to give the man a sad smile, “Worried I can’t make it back to the garrison without a keeper?” While the tone was intentionally light, his friends could hear the undercurrent of bitterness underneath. Not giving the men an opportunity to reply, he turned away again calling back over his shoulder, “Good night”.

 

The door closed behind d’Artagnan and Brunet and the three Musketeers were left alone, Porthos throwing his hands up in the air in frustration as he began to pace, while Athos moved to lean against the window frame, watching the street below until the two Gascons disappeared from view. “What was all that about?” Porthos asked, frustrated at how the evening had ended.

 

“It seems our young Gascon is somewhat sensitive these days about his time as an apprentice,” Aramis observed thoughtfully. A few moments passed in silence before he asked, “ _Did_ we take advantage of the boy’s generous spirit?”

 

Each man considered the question, recalling the times when d’Artagnan had taken on duties that the others detested. There was the boy’s natural ability with horses, their care and companionship seeming to soothe the Gascon’s soul, and each of them would agree that the young man had done more than his fair share in caring for their steeds. However, it was not out of malice or laziness but because the young man genuinely seemed to enjoy it, especially when he was feeling homesick. There were the times when d’Artagnan had been left caring for a drunken Athos, ensuring the man returned to his rooms safely in the early hours, leaving little time for sleep by the time he made it to his own bed, but again the young man didn’t seem to mind. Instead, d’Artagnan seemed to look at it as a point of pride, that he’d been entrusted with the safety of one of his brothers when the other two were otherwise engaged. The Gascon had been a godsend to Aramis as well, and if the man looked at his requests objectively, he knew there were times when the boy had agreed to take care of things on his behalf at the cost of his own free time. He’d never viewed the tasks he’d asked d’Artagnan to perform as overly onerous, but could see now how they might be perceived differently by others. Porthos, as well, had benefitted from d’Artagnan’s generosity, his purse being heavier for the Gascon’s willingness to participate in the card games which he’d manipulated in his favour. He’d seen nothing wrong with his actions, seeing the gleam of pleasure in the young man’s eyes at the fact that he’d been able to help out a friend and fleece some Red Guards of their pay as well. But perhaps that wasn’t the issue; it wasn’t that they had made unfair requests of the boy or treated him poorly, but that they, as of late, hadn’t treated him with the same kindness.

 

Porthos scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck as he admitted, “I don’t know that I’ve ever treated the boy unfairly, but I can’t say that I’ve given back as much as I’ve accepted from him.”

 

“I, too, can be accused of the same, although I’ve never seen an ounce of bitterness in our young Gascon at being asked to help us; he’s always given freely of himself, perhaps to his detriment,” Aramis’ voice grew lower as he spoke.

 

“Even the most steadfast will grow weary of a kinship that is not reciprocal. True friendship must be reflected back in the caring actions of another,” Athos stated quietly, topping up his glass wearily before taking a large swallow.

 

Aramis leaned his head on the wall behind him and closed his eyes, “For a man of few words, the ones you offer are exceptionally pithy, Athos.”

 

“Aye, we need to get that boy alone and clear the air before things get any worse,” Porthos agreed. “I’ll not let him think a moment longer that he isn’t as dear to us as we are to him.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Athos stated as he motioned toward Aramis with a nod of his head. The Spaniard was still in the same position, eyes closed, but it was apparent that his limbs had grown limp and his breathing was beginning to settle into sleep. No matter how much the situation with d’Artagnan rested heavily on their minds, Aramis’ body could not deny the fact that a mere twenty-four hours earlier, the man had almost died, leaving him weak and craving rest. Porthos gave a return nod as he and Athos settled down to finish another bottle of wine, both quiet with the thoughts that consumed them.

* * *

It was the second night in a row that d’Artagnan had spent mostly awake, dozing occasionally in his chair, but snapping awake at every minor creak of wood and passing footfall. He normally found the sounds comforting as they reminded him that he was safe within the walls of the garrison, but that night his mind was too busy to rest, turning over the events of the past few months unceasingly until the first streaks of dawn appeared. He scrubbed a hand tiredly over his face, cringing at the stickiness of his skin and the foul taste in his mouth, wrought from another evening of too much wine and too little sleep. He stood from his chair, stiff muscles protesting the awkward position he’d kept throughout the night, and splashed water on his face and neck, hoping it would revive him sufficiently to face the coming day. He wondered how the others were doing and whether their night had been as restless as his but, despite his uncertainties, found himself hoping that they had spent an easier night.

 

He took his time getting ready, deciding to mend a torn shirt before he headed downstairs, unready yet to put on a brave face and pretend as if all was well. He knew that Brunet would likely be waiting for him, and while the man’s company had been both enjoyable and a welcome distraction from thoughts of his friends, he now found himself wishing for some time away from the young recruit. Idly, he wondered if his three friends had ever thought the same of him. When he could no longer put off facing the world outside the four walls of his room, he strapped on his weapons and made his way outside. Sure enough, Brunet sat at their usual spot and had saved him some of the breakfast that was beginning to be cleared; not wanting to appear ungrateful, d’Artagnan gave a nod of thanks as he sat across from the other man.

 

Brunet examined the Musketeer as he ate, noting the dark bruising that was beginning to appear beneath both eyes, heralding a lack of proper rest which had been denied him. d’Artagnan seemed melancholy and withdrawn and Brunet allowed the silence between them to persist, not wanting to risk irritating the man when he was already on edge. When the Captain called for morning muster, Brunet placed himself next to the Gascon as he had since they’d been paired, and forced himself to pay attention to Treville’s orders as they were distributed. As the men were dismissed, the two found themselves once more being regarded by their experienced commanding officer, who stood in front of them seemingly waiting for them to speak. In actuality Treville was conducting his own examination of the young Musketeer and was singularly unhappy at what he was seeing. Deciding another day of distraction was warranted, he addressed the two men. “d’Artagnan, you and Brunet will continue your training today. Mind you adjust as necessary for your wound. Assuming Aramis is able, you’ll ride out tomorrow to deliver a message to the Governor of Berry in Bourges.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded in acknowledgement of the Captain’s orders and was about to turn away when Brunet cleared his throat. Reminded of his promise to the young recruit, he paused, “Captain, might Brunet accompany us? I know it’s not unusual for recruits to join certain missions and this sounds like a relatively straightforward one.”

 

Treville was silent for several moments, narrowing his gaze as he looked at the young recruit, and Brunet had to school his features, not allowing any of the anxiety provoked by the man’s stare to show. “Very well, Brunet you will accompany the others. Make sure you pack what you’ll need to be away for two weeks.”

 

Brunet ducked his head and then turned to d’Artagnan, “Thank you.”

 

d’Artagnan found himself smiling at the young man’s enthusiasm and clapped the recruit on the shoulder as he said, “You’re welcome. Now, we’d best get to our training before the Captain notices our idleness and adds to our duties.”

 

Despite the Captain’s words of warning, d’Artagnan engaged in some light sparring with the young recruit, biting off a gasp of pain at a particularly strong blow which resonated through his entire arm. Forcing a grin onto his face, the Gascon praised Brunet’s move and passed him off onto another Musketeer with whom to practice while he went and sat down, surreptitiously checking his arm, chagrined to find it wet with freshly seeping blood. Removing his arm from the sleeve of his doublet, he quickly tied a handkerchief around the cut, using his teeth to tighten the binding to hold the skin together where he’d popped a couple of stitches. Glancing around to ensure no one had noticed his actions, he slipped the doublet back on and began cleaning his sword as he kept one eye on Brunet’s style, calling out corrections when needed. After lunch they progressed to work with a harquebus and then some wrestling, d’Artagnan this time heeding the Captain’s words and limiting his involvement to instruction only while Brunet practiced his skills against another opponent. At the end of the day, the two men parted ways, d’Artagnan thankful to be able to finally slip back to his room to properly check on his arm, which had begun to throb in time with the beat of his heart as the day had progressed.

 

In the privacy of his room, he removed his doublet and unwrapped the bandage he’d applied earlier, grimacing to find it had bled a fair bit. Once the handkerchief was off, he pulled his sleeve up and winced at the similarly sodden bandage which covered the stitches. Using a wet cloth, he wiped the blood away from the wound, wincing as the light contact made the gash throb angrily. As he’d suspected, he’d popped some of the stitches that held the wound closed and he could either go back to have the physician replace them, do it himself, or simply bind the arm tightly. He chose the third option, not wanting to get berated for his carelessness and not having sufficient skill to apply needlework with his left hand. He poured a portion of strong brandy over the cut first and then bound it firmly with clean linen, swapping his bloody shirt for a clean one when he’d finished. Checking the time, he decided to bring dinner to his friends. Donning his doublet and weapons, he descended the stairs to the courtyard, seeing Brunet standing by the kitchen, waiting for him. Before he had a chance to join the recruit, Treville caught his attention and called him over to his office. He gave a wave to Brunet, pointing to the Captain’s office, the other man nodding in understanding and indicating he would wait where he was.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’ve been to see Aramis and he feels fit enough to take on the journey to Bourges. Make sure you and Brunet are ready to depart tomorrow morning,” Treville informed him.

 

“Yes, sir, I was actually just on my way to see them now,” the Gascon explained.

 

The Captain’s brow furrowed, “They’re not at Athos’ rooms anymore. Aramis felt well enough to return to his and did so this afternoon, and Porthos and Athos indicated they were going out.” At the stricken look on d’Artagnan’s face, he said, “Don’t worry, you’ll see them all in the morning.”

 

The Gascon managed a nod as he swallowed, “Is there anything else, sir?” At the Captain’s head shake, he turned on his heel and left, standing just outside the man’s office once the door had closed. He knew the three men had stayed together because Aramis had needed their care, but thought that at least Porthos and Athos might come to the garrison to speak with him once the sharpshooter was out of danger. Instead, it seemed they had gone out together, not bothering to invite their fourth. d’Artagnan knew it was petty of him to feel slighted; after all, they were all grown men and he shouldn’t need their company so desperately, but the truth was that he had missed them all terribly, feeling as though he hadn’t had the support of their friendship for such a long time. It left him feeling adrift and unbalanced, uncertain of his place with the men who he’d called _brother_ for so many months. Suddenly he found his appetite had deserted him and he looked down at Brunet he stood below, still waiting for him. “Brunet, I’m going to go pack my things for tomorrow. The Captain wants us ready to leave first thing.” At Brunet’s acknowledgement, he turned away and went back to his room, closing the door gratefully behind him so he deal with his misery in peace.

* * *

Aramis had indeed felt better that day and had been sitting at the table with his friends when the Captain arrived with lunch. It had been an unexpected visit, but Athos knew that Treville was a commander who loved his men and his lips turned up in amusement at the surprised looks on his friends’ faces at the officer’s arrival.

 

"Aramis, it’s good to see you’re feeling better,” the Captain greeted the man warmly as he placed the food he’d brought on the table.

 

Aramis gave one of his most charming smiles as Treville’s kind actions warmed him, “Thank you, Captain, I am most relieved myself.”

 

They sat down around the table, each helping themselves before resuming their conversation. “Have you been able to find out anything more about how this happened?” Treville asked.

 

Athos shook his head, “No, but Porthos and I plan to visit the tavern this afternoon and see if the barmaid can shed any light on things.”

 

The Captain gave a nod of approval. “And if that’s a dead end?”

 

Porthos shrugged, “We’ll take extra care to watch each other’s backs.”

 

“Perhaps I can help with that,” Treville stated. “I have a missive that needs to be delivered to Bourges. Can you manage the ride?” he asked, eyes now on Aramis.

 

“Of course, Captain, I’m fine to ride,” the sharpshooter answered with another broad smile.

 

Athos almost rolled his eyes at his friend, but didn’t contradict him. While Aramis wasn’t fully recovered, he was well enough to sit a horse and wield a sword; there was really nothing that would prevent him from fulfilling his duty and being out of Paris might be useful while they investigated the poisoning. “What about d’Artagnan?” Athos questioned, already readying his argument to bring the boy along if the Captain’s plans differed.

 

“He’ll be riding with you,” Treville replied. “He and Brunet have their orders and will be waiting for you first thing tomorrow morning.” The change was subtle, but telling enough for the Captain to tell that something was wrong, “Is there something going on of which I should be aware?”

 

The three men shared a glance and Treville bit his tongue, irritated but giving the men the time they needed to reach a decision. “What can you tell us of Brunet?” Athos queried.

 

The Captain leaned back in his chair, a little surprised at the question but willing to answer it none-the-less. “He’s new to the garrison, three, maybe four months now. He brought a letter of recommendation from an uncle and has had sufficient coin to pay his own way. Other than that, not much other than what I and others have observed during training. Why do you ask?”

 

“He seems to ‘ave taken quite a fancy to d’Artagnan,” Porthos allowed.

 

“As far as I’ve seen, d’Artagnan has been doing a good job with him and Brunet has flourished under his tutelage. Is there something more that I should be aware of?” the Captain countered.

 

The men’s silent communication was evident again, and Treville stifled the sigh that threatened to escape him as three of his best men deliberated what, if anything, they would share with their Captain. Finally, Athos relented, “Nothing.” At the Captain’s pointed look, he went on, “It’s just a feeling, which the three of us share. Brunet has done nothing wrong that we’re aware of and we would tell you if he had.”

 

Treville nodded in acceptance of the man’s words, trusting that he would be advised if things changed. “Very well,” he responded, readying himself to leave. “I’ll see you back at the garrison tomorrow morning.”

 

Once the Captain had left, Porthos let out a long sigh before catching Athos’ eye, “Take Aramis back to his place and then off to the tavern?”

 

Athos nodded, while Aramis sputtered in mock indignation, “I can assure you that I’m more than capable of finding my own way back.”

 

Porthos gave him a fond look, “Given how few nights you spend in your own bed, we’ve often wondered.” Aramis’ face split into a grin at the teasing before Porthos said more seriously, “Look, we still don’t know who poisoned you or even if you were the target. Till we know more, none of us goes anywhere by themselves.”

 

Aramis nodded and then paused, “What about d’Artagnan? He’s been alone this whole time.”

 

“Doubtful. He’s at the garrison and I’d be shocked to hear that he’s been without his shadow,” Athos countered dryly.

 

They cleaned up from lunch and headed to Aramis’, ensuring the man had everything he needed and eliciting a promise from the man to stay put and not leave without them. Aramis rolled his eyes but agreed, curious to hear what they might find out during their afternoon excursion. Porthos and Athos returned to the tavern, Athos speaking with the owner while the larger man talked with one of the barmaids he recognized. The older man was finished first and as he stood waiting at the door, leaning casually against the doorframe, he saw both Porthos and the barmaid shooting looks in his direction. Porthos’ face was serious and their glances were followed by another minute or two of intense conversation before the Musketeer dropped a few coins in the girl’s hand and wove his way through the tables to where Athos stood waiting. “Let’s go outside,” he said lowly, already moving through the door.

 

They walked in silence until they’d put a little distance between themselves and the tavern, at which point Porthos ducked into an alley, Athos following on his heels. With a raised eyebrow, Athos waited for his friend to speak. “She remembered you from the other night. She was approached outside by a man who paid her to bring that bottle of wine to your table. She thought it was a bit odd, but he paid well and told her some story about bein’ a friend and this bein’ your favorite wine.”

 

Athos leaned against the wall of a nearby building, crossing his arms as he considered his friend’s words, “At least we can be assured that Aramis is out of danger.”

 

Porthos snorted in derision, “Only you could find comfort in this information.”

 

Athos merely shrugged, far happier to place his own life at risk versus the lives of his brothers. “Was she able to describe this man?”

 

“Younger than us, dark hair and skin, fit although a bit on the skinny side for her tastes; a boy, she said, not yet a man,” Porthos shared.

 

Pushing away from the wall, Athos declared, “A description that could fit half the men in France. We’ll just need to stay on our guard for now and wait for this man to make his next move.”

 

Porthos nodded unhappily, hating the fact that they had little recourse other to wait for another attack. As the two men moved back into the street, they had no idea that the attack they awaited would come much sooner than they expected, catching all of them unaware.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know nothing of Gerard,” Brunet spit, leaning in close to d’Artagnan’s ear. “He was a strong and honorable man and you will pay for taking him away from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support from folks for this story and for the lovely comments and kudos that make me smile. It looks like there will be 20 chapters in all so we're approaching the end - of course, that doesn't mean we'll get there in a calm and sedate fashion! Hope you enjoy this next installment.

The following morning arrived bright and warm, promising another hot day baked by the bright sunshine, and d’Artagnan groaned as he averted his gaze, eyes squinting partially closed as the sun’s glare sent spikes of pain into his fragile skull. He knew better than to get drunk the night before a mission, but he’d been too restless to stay in his room and soon found himself in a run-down tavern, far away from any that he and his friends frequented, having no desire to happen upon the men as he drowned his sorrows in glass after glass of thick, red wine. Unknown to him, the same men he was trying to avoid had travelled to the garrison to speak with him, bringing one of his favorite meals from the city to share in his room. They had been understandably disappointed to find no sign of the Gascon and ended up sharing a rather subdued meal at their usual table in the courtyard, hopeful that the boy might show up while they ate. Although they intentionally wiled away the time, waiting for the young man to appear, they left empty-handed a few hours later, needing to prepare for the following day’s mission.

 

By the time that d’Artagnan appeared at the stables that morning, the others were nearly finished saddling their mounts and Athos cast a disapproving look at the young man’s condition. Pushing away his initial instinct to berate the boy, he asked instead, “Have you eaten?”

 

d’Artagnan turned a shade greener as he shook his head minutely and collected his horse’s tack. Athos threw Porthos a glance and the larger man nodded, leading his horse out into the courtyard before going in search of food for their youngest.

 

“Good morning,” a voice called, causing d’Artagnan to wince as the sound echoed through his throbbing head.

 

“Morning,” Aramis greeted, a wide smile on his face. “Has anyone shown you the proper way to pack your saddlebags yet? No, you’d best come with me then.” Aramis expertly diverted Brunet from the stables, leading him and their horses outside so Athos had a few minutes alone with d’Artagnan.

 

Athos came over and took the bridle from d’Artagnan’s hands, fitting it onto the horse’s head while the Gascon focused on the saddle. “We missed you last night,” Athos stated as he worked. The young man gave a grunt as he continued working. “We came by with dinner.” He paused again to see if d’Artagnan would respond, allowing the silence to stretch.

 

Finally, the young man replied, “The Captain said you were going out so I didn’t see the need to stick around.”

 

Athos inclined his head slightly, “The Captain was correct, but when we were finished, we wished to share a meal with you.” The man’s tone was soft and sincere and d’Artagnan found himself stopping to look at his mentor who was once more waiting patiently for him to speak.

 

d’Artagnan found himself suddenly feeling badly and he mumbled, “Sorry.”

 

“There’s no need for apology. Is there a reason you felt the need to partake in my favorite pastime last night?” Athos asked as he passed the young man his saddlebags so they could be attached.

 

The Gascon shook his head, having no idea how he could possibly share the things which had been troubling him without sounding like a petulant child. d’Artagnan’s horse was nearly ready and Athos was unwilling to allow his opportunity to pass so he took a deep breath before speaking, “d’Artagnan, I think it’s time for us to talk. There has been some tension between us as of late…”

 

Before he could continue, Brunet was striding loudly into the stable, an apologetic Aramis trailing behind as he lifted his arms in an “I couldn’t stop him” gesture. “The Captain’s outside to see us off. Are you ready?” Brunet asked, seemingly ignorant of the conversation he’d interrupted.

 

Athos glared at Aramis for his inability to keep the recruit out of their way as d’Artagnan replied, “Yes, we’re ready.” Moments later he was leading his horse outside, leaving Aramis and Athos to stare at each other with matching looks of defeat. “I’m sorry, Athos, he was moving before I knew it and unless you wanted me to take my blade to him, there was no way to stop him.”

 

Athos grunted, giving Aramis the impression that the man’s suggestion would not have been unwelcome, but he accepted the apology with a hand on the sharpshooter’s arm as he passed on his way outside. Their three travelling companions were standing with Treville and the two men joined them to receive the parchment they were delivering along with a few last words from the Captain. When they’d been wished a safe journey by Treville, Porthos shoved a bundle into d’Artagnan’s hands with orders to eat and they mounted, heading through the gates and into the streets. Once they were beyond the city walls, the road widened and Brunet had situated himself next to d’Artagnan, a position he’d maintained for several hours. Behind them, Athos rode between his other two friends, Porthos leaning sideways to whisper to the two men, “Didn’t take him long to cozy up to the boy.” None of the men were happy that Brunet had once more taken his spot next to d’Artagnan and Athos was still bristling at his lost opportunity earlier that morning. “Want us to run interference so you get a few minutes with him?” Porthos asked.

 

It was an appealing offer but the trip to Bourges would take five days, plenty of time for them to clear the air between them. “No, there will be time later. For now, I think we should get to know our young recruit better.” At Athos’ words, Porthos and Aramis nudged their horses forward, flanking the two men ahead of them, and Athos could hear them engaging Brunet in conversation. Brunet had been annoyed at the Musketeers’ questions but he couldn’t say anything without raising suspicion so, as the afternoon stretched into evening, he heartily answered every question that was posed, biding his time.

 

The attack came as they rounded the curve of the road, the path significantly narrower than before for a quarter of a mile as they travelled through a small wooded area. The result was that they now rode single-file, Porthos at their front and Athos at their back, when they found their way ahead blocked by riders as the first shots came from the woods to their right. Porthos didn’t even have a chance to cry out as a ball embedded itself in his arm, dropping him from his horse to lay stunned on the ground. Behind him, Aramis cried out in alarm, even as he reached for his harquebus and took aim at one of the men in front of them. His shot was true and the bandit fell, only for another to take his place. The sharpshooter was already reaching for his second harquebus, releasing the ball before riding forward to engage the men with his sword, sparing a quick glance at Porthos who still lay on the ground.

 

At the back of their group, Athos had also taken his shot, managing to thus far remain untouched by the return fire from the woods. As the bandits rushed them from the trees, he pulled his blade and slashed at the nearest man, managing to remove two before his horse faltered and he was forced to dismount, smacking the beast sharply on the rump to get it out the line of fire. Further up, he caught a glimpse of d’Artagnan who was battling one of the bandits with his sword. Having no more time to spare, Athos turned back to his opponent, despatching him with a vicious thrust of his dagger, turning to face another bandit before the dead man had fallen. Aramis was still holding his own, doing his best to keep two men away from Porthos who, to his anguish, still had not risen. The Spaniard growled in rage as one of the bandits tried to maneuver around him to get to his fallen friend, and he ruthlessly drew his dagger across the man’s throat before turning back to the other, pushing him back with a series of brutal hits. As he ended the man’s life, he turned to look for his next opponent, missing the bandit moving toward him from the opposite side. The blow brought Aramis to the ground instantly, the bandit standing over him victoriously as he hefted the pistol he’d used in his hand.

 

There were still two Musketeers standing, both fighting skillfully with their blades, but it was easy to see that the younger one was struggling. d’Artagnan had waded into the fray after discharging his pistol, but his right arm continued to be hindered by the recent wound he’d suffered, and it was getting more and more challenging to block his opponent’s strikes. He’d lost track of Aramis, Porthos and Brunet but caught the occasional glimpse of Athos, and prayed that all of his friends were still breathing, even as his own breath came in harsh gasps. Another sword strike had his blade falling from his grasp, his hand suddenly numb from the force of the hit, his fingers unable to hold onto the hilt. He brought his left hand up, parrying with his dagger as he stepped backwards, trying to get out of range of his attacker’s weapon. He heard another pistol shot, followed by a shout and suddenly, everyone stilled. He looked around in stunned silence, still holding his dagger up to defend himself, and caught sight of Athos who was also looking around in surprise. Striding toward them with several bandits at his back was Brunet and d’Artagnan frowned at him in confusion. “Brunet, what’s going on?”

 

The recruit seemed far more confident than ever before as he stood before the Gascon, Athos still standing several feet away but surrounded now by several armed men. “Stupid Musketeer,” Brunet jeered at him. “So quick to trust. I am so much better than you and you will suffer for your actions.”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan looked at him, now equal parts angry and embarrassed at having been duped. “What are you talking about, Brunet? Why are you doing this and who are these men?” he demanded.

 

Brunet turned to walk away from him and the Gascon lunged forward, only to be stopped by two men who appeared beside him, grabbing his arms and removing the dagger from his grip. The would-be Musketeer gave a nod in Athos’ direction and the men surrounding the older man drew closer, their meaning clear, and Athos dropped his weapons, unwilling to allow further damage to come to his friends as a result of his actions. As soon as Athos was disarmed, the men moved forward to tie his hands and Brunet focused on d’Artagnan once more. He strode forward two steps to brutally plant his fist in the Musketeer’s flank, once, twice, and then a third time, leaving the man slumped between his captors as he fought for breath. d’Artagnan’s lungs seemed paralyzed by the blows and he hung limply for a half-minute as he struggled to expand them against the pain in his ribs. When he was able to draw enough air to speak, he pulled himself upright to glare at the former recruit.

 

“You took my best friend away from me,” Brunet sneered, “and I will see you and your friends suffer for it.”  

 

“What are you talking about?” d’Artagnan persisted, still confused.

 

Brunet closed the distance between them once more, planting a finger in the Gascon’s chest as he spoke, “You don’t even know who you killed, do you? Gerard was a fine man, better than any stupid farm boy, and you and your friends ended his life without a second thought.”

 

Athos’ head slumped as the pieces clicked together and he called out to the man, “Brunet, the Baron was an exceptionally cruel man and a criminal. He deserved what happened to him.”

 

As he’d hoped, his words had removed Brunet’s attention from the Gascon and he now moved toward Athos instead. “You have no idea of which you speak. Gerard was a great man and we were going to do great things together!” he raged. As suddenly as the man’s anger had erupted, it vanished, in its place a cold and eerie calm that Athos found even more worrisome. “Tie them to the horses if they can walk; if they can’t, throw them over the back of their beasts.” With those words, Brunet turned away, confident that the bandits would do as they’d been told. The two Musketeers shared a concerned look before being pushed forward so the bandits could carry out their orders. 

* * *

They were surrounded by men on horseback, both ahead and behind them, and Athos had counted a total of eight men, plus Brunet, and he allowed himself a short moment of satisfaction at the fact that they’d reduced the recruit’s forces by half. Ahead of them, Aramis and Porthos were both slung across their horse’s backs and it worried him immensely that neither man had shown signs of life in the time since they’d been captured. He could see the occasional drop of crimson liquid fall from Porthos’ fingertips as his wound continued to seep, and he bit his lip at the man’s persistent blood loss. Sparing a glance at d’Artagnan he noted how the young man pressed his right arm to his side, and frowned recalling the blows he’d taken to his ribs; with luck, they were just badly bruised and not broken. The boy was still paler than normal and Athos imagined that the day’s events hadn’t helped his aching head any, which had obviously troubled him throughout the day. For his own part, Athos had emerged relatively unscathed, suffering from nothing more than the usual assortment of small nicks and bruises that resulted from most battlefield encounters.

 

d’Artagnan stumbled and Athos moved to his left, trying to brace the boy for a moment with his shoulder since his hands were tied, the rope attached to one of the horses ahead of them. The Gascon flashed him a soft smile of thanks as he regained his footing and they trudged on. It was dark by the time they stopped, entering the fenced courtyard of a house that may have once been grand, but now showed clear signs of neglect and disrepair. In the large open space, lit by several torches, were three posts, spread out in a semi-circle with five feet between them, and a fourth post positioned in the centre of the others, approximately 15 feet away.

 

d’Artagnan was grateful when they came to a halt, his arm and side throbbing in time to the hammer that beat in his head, and he chastised himself once more for his idiocy in consuming so much wine the night prior. He watched as Porthos and then Aramis were pulled from their horses, both men apparently awake now as they stumbled, trying to get their feet underneath them. d’Artagnan’s heart soared at the knowledge that both friends were alive, but winced as he saw the amount of red on Porthos’ arm, his entire sleeve darkened with blood. The large man faltered again, his head hanging low as two of the bandits chivvied him towards one of the posts and Aramis gave them a harsh glare as he staggered to his friend’s side, clearly having his own difficulties, and held onto Porthos’ upper arm as he helped the man to one of the posts. The bandits scowled back at the sharpshooter but didn’t intervene, pulling him away as soon as Porthos collapsed against the post. Aramis tried to twist in the men’s hold, grimacing as his sore head protested the motion, but the two holding him pushed him forward, tying his hands roughly behind the second post.

 

Athos maintained a calm façade, watching as his friends were tied and wincing in sympathy at the men’s poor condition. Porthos’ arm would need to be bandaged if he were to have any chance of surviving and Aramis looked like he was suffering from a concussion, a trail of blood having woven its way down the side of his face, his eyes closed now as he leaned against the wooden pole behind him. A bandit pushed him from behind, indicating that it was his turn, and Athos’ heart clenched at the knowledge that the remaining post was likely meant for their youngest, its position in the centre unlikely to have been by chance. He bore the act of being tied stoically, eyes scanning their surroundings and the bandits’ movements continuously in order to gather information that could aid in their escape.

 

d'Artagnan was the last to be restrained and, as Athos had suspected, was led to the centremost pole, his hands untied for a moment before they were pulled behind him, drawing a swallowed cry of pain from him. Athos’ eyebrow quirked at the sound but the Gascon gave an abbreviated head shake, asking him to keep his questions to himself for now. d’Artagnan’s eyes were now looking somewhere over his left shoulder and Athos turned his head as far as he could to see Brunet strutting out of the house and across to where he and his friends were bound. He stopped midway between the four men, a wide grin on his face as he asked in a condescending tone, “Comfortable?”

 

“Brunet,” Athos called. “Whatever you’ve done thus far can be forgotten if you let us go now. Simply release us and give us our horses and we’ll ride away without a backward glance.”

 

Brunet actually seemed to be considering Athos’ offer for several moments before breaking out in laughter as he walked to stand in front of the older Musketeer. Without warning, his hand came up to land a hard blow to Athos’ cheek and he could feel blood trickling down from a cut along his cheekbone. “Why would I want to let you go when I’ve gone to so much effort to arrange this,” he asked, one hand sweeping out around him. “No, Athos,” he hissed the man’s name, “you won’t be leaving quite yet. Not until my cousin’s death has been avenged.” Athos blinked angrily, his eyes stinging and tearing from the blow, but he stayed quiet, watching as Brunet stalked away from him, apparently having set his sights on d’Artagnan instead. The older Musketeer could see the Gascon’s anger at the blow he’d endured and he held the younger man’s gaze, willing him to remain calm until they were left alone to formulate a plan.

 

d’Artagnan shifted his eyes to the former recruit, watching warily as the man walked around him, uncertain of what would happen next. A full minute passed by in this manner, the Gascon pushing down his impatience as Brunet seemed content to bask in his feelings of superiority before finally stopping to give the Musketeer a hard look. “Why did you attack my cousin?” he asked.

 

“I didn’t,” d’Artagnan stammered, surprised at the accusation. “I went to his house only to speak with him about the crimes against the surrounding residents. _He_ was the one who assaulted _me_.”

 

Brunet huffed in disbelief, “Gerard would never attack anyone unprovoked. You must have given him some cause to fear you.” The man began to pace in front of the Gascon once more, d’Artagnan trying again to reason with him.

 

“Brunet, you’ve been away from Gascony for some time now and people change. Perhaps your uncle’s death…”

 

He got no further as the recruit’s face twisted in rage and he pummeled d’Artagnan’s torso with several quick hits, leaving the Musketeer sagging forward, held upright only by his arms which were bound behind him. “You know nothing of Gerard,” Brunet spit, leaning in close to d’Artagnan’s ear. “He was a strong and honorable man and you will pay for taking him away from me.”

 

With that, the man turned on his heel and walked away, the remaining bandits following him inside, and moments later they heard the slam of a door. Athos waited for several moments as d’Artagnan collected himself and, when he straightened, motioned behind him with his head to ask whether they were alone. At the Gascon’s nod, Athos released a sigh, looking over at the two men beside him. “Porthos,” he called quietly, “are you with us?”

 

“Yeah,” answered a breathless voice. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

 

The reply brought smiles to the other men’s faces as Athos continued his roll call, “Aramis?”

 

“Here as well, although I’d really prefer Madame Lafitte’s company right about now. No offense,” Aramis replied, head still leaning back against the pole behind him, keeping his breathing steady as he battled his concussion-induced nausea.

 

Athos’ lips quirked again, “None taken.” He peered through the dim light at d’Artagnan, cursing the fact that their youngest was so far away from them. “d’Artagnan, what of your condition?”

 

“Brunet hits like a girl,” he stated, pulling a snort from Porthos and a chuff of laughter from Aramis, followed immediately by a low moan as the action aggravated his aching head. After several beats, d’Artagnan added, “My arm and ribs are sore, but I can still fight.” He’d been well trained about the need to be truthful about injuries, lest an infirmity put one of his brothers at risk, and Athos nodded at the reply he received.

 

“We need to get permission to bind Porthos’ arm and see about some water, at the very least, if we are to be fit enough to endure what’s to come,” Athos declared. “Porthos, anything more you can tell us about your wound?”

 

The large man shook his head a little, trying to clear the cobwebs caused by blood loss and the blow to the head he’d suffered when he’d fallen from his horse, “Nothing to tell. I didn’t get a good look at it before they tied us up.”

 

Athos swallowed his frustration, knowing he would just have to have faith that the man’s injury was not immediately life-threatening and that they would find the means to treat it before it became so. “Are anyone’s bindings loose enough to slip?” He received three negative responses and stopped himself from sighing tiredly at the expected response. The bandit who had tied his hands seemed especially enthusiastic and he was already feeling pins and needles from the restricted blow flow to his fingers.

 

"Athos," d'Artagnan called, “what do you think he plans to do with us?”

 

Several possible scenarios flashed through Athos’ thoughts, none of them ending well for the four men. Brunet had already proven to be unpredictable, his moods swinging wildly from one moment to the next. Further, he seemed to idolize his dead cousin, a man who had demonstrated an ability to be exceptionally cruel in his brutality, if their time spent in the Baron’s prison was any indication. The fact that the man had previously targeted Athos with the poisoned wine offered the Musketeer some small consolation as he privately hoped that Brunet’s attention might remain focused on him. If that were the case, Athos would do everything in his power to negotiate for the other men’s release, preferably before they experienced any further harm and were still able to ride away from here.

 

Apparently he’d stayed silent too long and now looked around to see his friends staring at him, Aramis the first one to speak, “Don’t even think about it, Athos. We won’t stand for it.” d’Artagnan looked at Aramis, trying to comprehend the meaning of his friend’s words. Aramis lowered his voice and spoke again, “It’s not a win if you sacrifice your life for ours, my friend.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head snapped up sharply, gazing at his mentor’s face in the poor lighting, seeing the truth of Aramis’ words reflected there. “He’s right, Athos. Whatever plan you come up with, it must see us all out of here safely.”

 

It was difficult to make out the Gascon’s features, but by the tone of the boy’s voice, Athos could picture the set of his shoulders and the promise in his face, reminding him that these men felt the same way about him as he felt about them; they would not willingly stand by and allow him to sacrifice himself on their behalf. Grudgingly he nodded, “Very well, then. I’d be happy to entertain any ideas about how we might accomplish our escape.” Looking from one man to the next, he watched as each shook his head; for now they would have to wait and look for any opportunities that presented themselves. Sighing, Athos allowed his body to slide down to the ground, sitting against the pole with his legs outstretched. The moon was high in the sky and it was clearly getting late, making it unlikely that anything more would happen until daylight. “Try to get some sleep,” he ordered his friends, tipping his head to rest on the post that held him and closing his eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His vision was clouded with tears and he let them fall, lacking the strength or desire to stop them. By picking one, he would condemn them all. Drawing a shaky inhale, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and made his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say that Brunet gets what's coming to him in this next chapter, but instead I feel compelled to give a tissue warning. Oh, and did I mention the cliffhanger? Hope you enjoy!

Contrary to Athos’ predictions, they were not left alone during the night, one or more of the men coming out every hour or so to wake the men, kicking at their feet and legs, and generally making the four miserable by ensuring they got little rest. The only positive thing that had resulted was a quick bandaging job on Porthos’ arm, completed after Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s combined pleas elicited blows that rocked both men’s heads, an act that was apparently satisfactory enough for the bandit to roughly bind Musketeer’s wound afterwards. Porthos had growled lowly at the man as he’d worked, but the bandit did nothing more than snicker in contempt when he’d finished, giving Aramis’ legs an extra hard kick as he passed by, jolting his aching head badly enough to cause a painful bout of vomiting.

 

During the intervals of quiet, Athos did his best to sleep, allowing himself to analyze and discard possible solutions to their situation when his mind refused to rest. He’d wished numerous times that he and d’Artagnan were closer together so he might at least talk to the boy without others listening in, as he didn’t want the bandits to know more of their recent tensions, which could potentially be used against them. Next to him, Aramis and Porthos seemed to be managing some sleep, although it was difficult to tell at times if they were sleeping or unconscious, a thought which Athos refused to dwell on for too long. Across from him, d’Artagnan seemed restless, shifting frequently, and Athos guessed that the boy’s ribs were likely making it difficult for him to find a pain free position in which to rest.

 

d’Artagnan had indeed spent the majority of the night awake, adjusting himself as much as he was able to relieve the pressure on his aching side and arm. He hadn’t had an opportunity to check his wound the day they’d departed, waking late after his evening of drinking and having to rush down to the courtyard to meet the others. During the ride, he’d rested his arm as much as he could, holding the reins in his left hand and using his right only when necessary. The skirmish with the bandits had reawakened the deep throb as he’d been forced to defend himself with his blade, and he guessed that another stitch or two may have popped as he’d felt wetness underneath the sleeve of his doublet. Now, hours later, he found himself uncomfortably warm and realized with a pang of guilt that his wound had likely become infected. He groaned quietly to himself when he concluded that he might become a liability to the others and promised himself that he would find a way to bring things to an end that day.  

 

The sun had been up for a couple hours by the time that Brunet sauntered outside, and the Musketeers were beginning to feel the effects of the rising heat, having had no water since they’d been captured. Porthos’ condition seemed especially dire and the man had barely responded to Aramis’ increasingly more persistent attempts to engage the man in conversation. Porthos had done his best to remain aware and reply to his friend’s calls, but his mouth and throat felt as though he’d swallowed sand, his misery compounded by the incessant ache of his arm and the intermittent waves of heat and cold that now washed over him, heralding a fever borne from infection. He’d done his best to rest throughout the night, hoping that some proper sleep would help him recover his waning strength, but he found himself feeling weaker with each passing hour and worried now at his diminished ability to help with whatever escape attempt Athos might propose.

 

Brunet had completed a lap around their semi-circle, taking his time to examine each man in turn, receiving a variety of glares in return. When he’d finished, he stopped in the centre and slowly spun around, as though trying to decide where to begin. The three experienced Musketeers maintained their neutral demeanors, understanding fully the man’s intention in trying to make them nervous, anticipation often being the worse part of any physical torture. d’Artagnan unfortunately lacked his friends’ self-control and Athos could see the cracks forming in his mask seconds before the young man yelled at Brunet, “Just get on with it already!”

 

Brunet pivoted around like a snake preparing to strike, a mirthless smile on his face as he considered the youngest Musketeer. “ _You_ are the weakest of them all,” he said, pointing a finger at the Gascon. “ _You_ were the reason for the others’ involvement, _you_ were the one who needed rescue and _you_ were the reason my cousin was killed. Without _you_ , Gerard would still be alive.”

 

"So kill me and let the others go,” d’Artagnan countered, more than willing to trade his life for his friends’ freedom.

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Brunet wagged a finger at him, “where would be the fun in that?” With his hands behind his back, the man began to pace in front of d’Artagnan once more, adopting the stance of a schoolteacher scolding his errant student. “Do you know the real suffering that accompanies death, d’Artagnan?” Of course he did. Had he not suffered through the deaths of both parents, facing each day alone, without their love and counsel? Had he not spent nights alone, panting for breath when the nightmares of his father’s murder awoke him and prevented further rest? d’Artagnan was no stranger to the suffering of death and his heart sank as he realized Brunet’s true intentions.

 

“The real pain is on the shoulders of those left behind, who must now go forward and face the world alone, without their loved ones by their side. This is the suffering I wish for you, d’Artagnan,” Brunet stated. As he’d spoken, three bandits had moved closer to the Musketeers and at Brunet’s wave, they stepped forward gagging the three older men as the Gascon gaped.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, concern rising again at these new circumstances, while his friends scowled at having their mouths stuffed and bound with filthy rags.

 

Brunet turned to address the Gascon directly, “By sundown tonight you will pick which of your friends you’ll sacrifice at which time the rest of you will be released. If you refuse to choose, I’ll kill one and give you the same offer tomorrow. Have no doubt – if you refuse to choose a second time, I’ll kill them both, leaving you to go free so you can live with the burden of their deaths till the end of your days. I’ll be back this evening to hear your answer.”

 

“No, Brunet, wait; this is madness. Just kill me. As you said, I’m the reason for your cousin’s death so I’m the one who should pay,” d’Artagnan pleaded.

 

“As you’ve said, you should pay, and I can imagine no higher price than forfeiting the life of one of your brothers. Sundown, d’Artagnan,” Brunet reiterated, walking off when he’d said his peace.

 

d’Artagnan looked hopelessly at the faces of his brothers, the men he’d bled for and would willingly die for. How could he possibly choose to end one of their lives? It was an impossible decision and the irony was not lost on the Gascon; he would spend an entire day weighing the lives of his friends, only to have to select one to be killed rather than losing all of them. As his gaze slipped from one man’s face to the next, he could see that they were trying to assure him the only way they could. Porthos’ face held compassion and forgiveness and he could imagine the larger man saying, “ _Pick me, lad. I’ve been wounded and lost a fair amount of blood. If it comes down to a fight I’ll be more hindrance than help. I’ve faced cruelty like this before and would be proud to give my life in order to save the lives of my brothers. Be strong, as I know you are. There is no shame in it and I will not hold it against you. Pick me, lad; all is forgiven._ ”

 

Aramis’ eyes glistened with unshed tears and he knew without a doubt that those tears were not for himself, but for his youngest brother who faced an unbearable choice. “ _Pick me, d’Artagnan. I’ve lived five years longer than I should have, surviving Savoy when the others perished. I understand now that was the reason I was spared – so I could save my brothers on this day and know that they will walk free. Death will be a pleasant release from my days of guilty sorrow and a far better fate awaits me. Pick me, d’Artagnan; my time is past._ ”

 

Athos’ eyes held nothing but determination and d’Artagnan knew without a doubt that the man would want to give his life rather than face a single day without his brothers at his side. “ _Pick me, d’Artagnan. I deserve this punishment for my past sins. The greatest gift I received was the salvation I found in the arms of my brothers. By picking me, you will relieve me of my burdens, the sins that time cannot erase and which continue to darken my soul. My legacy will be the safety of my brothers, those who I hold dearest in this world and who I cannot live without. Pick me, d’Artagnan; let me rest in peace._ ”

 

d’Artagnan dropped his gaze to the ground, no longer able to bear the understanding and compassion in his friends’ eyes. How could he ever have doubted these men, losing precious moments with them that he would now never have an opportunity to regain? His vision was clouded with tears and he let them fall, lacking the strength or desire to stop them. By picking one, he would condemn them all. Drawing a shaky inhale, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and made his choice.

* * *

The heat was especially cruel that day, the sun’s rays seemingly having chased away even the barest breeze to cool the men who sat outside. Athos’ fair skin had long turned pink, the men having been relieved of their hats at the same time they’d lost their weapons. They’d been allowed to keep their doublets, a blessing during the cooler nighttime hours, but a curse in the unrelenting heat of the day. Without water, the men had withered like shrivelled plants in the sun, Porthos slumped to one side, held in place only by his bindings, while Aramis slumped forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. While Athos and d’Artagnan showed more signs of life than their two comrades, it was clear to anyone observing that all four were beginning to suffer the effects of heatstroke in addition to the various wounds that troubled them.

 

Squinting against the brightness of the day, Athos lifted his head, as he had occasionally throughout the day when he wasn’t looking downwards in an attempt to hide his face from the harsh rays that burned his light skin. Across from him, d’Artagnan’s position was similar to Aramis’ and Athos cursed his inability to talk with the man, having seen him slump dejectedly hours earlier. He knew that Brunet’s ultimatum weighed heavily on the boy and would have liked to at least offer him some comfort, letting him know that his brothers would not judge him, no matter his decision. It mattered little that he and his two friends had been unable to discuss the matter because each man knew what lay in his brothers’ hearts, and each would give up their life for the others. He could not imagine the pain that d’Artagnan now endured, forced to choose among them in order to save the rest, and admitted to himself that he would have no idea what to say if in the young man’s position. Regardless, whatever the Gascon’s decision, it was clear that he had reached one and from the sun’s position, they would hear it within the next 2 or 3 hours.

 

d’Artagnan opened his eyes and lifted them without raising his head, noting that Athos was once more staring in his direction. The Gascon ached for his mentor’s advice, if only to assure him that he would be forgiven the choice he had made. He daren’t raise his head up since he knew that Athos longed to speak with him as well and had been throwing glances in his direction all day, but d’Artagnan couldn’t bear to see disappointment in his eyes. He’d considered calling out to Brunet to end the man’s game earlier, letting him know what he’d decided in order to end his brothers’ suffering in the heat, but he was a coward, and could not stand that thought of ending someone’s life even a minute sooner than necessary. So they waited. It was the worst part, d’Artagnan realized, waiting for the end; feeling the fever course through him and rob his body of its strength, reflecting on his life and on his regrets, chief among them his inability to let his brothers know that the bond between them remained true, unbroken by the recent events which had separated them. It had been childish of him to ever doubt his friends’ fidelity and the yearning to make things right between them brought an ache to his chest that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. He swore that when their tormentor appeared, he would bargain for time to speak his peace before voicing his choice.

 

The next hours passed slowly, the sun making its way slowly across the sky, finally providing some shade to the men who had been scorched by the heat for nearly the entire day. d’Artagnan licked his dry and cracked lips as he watched Brunet approach, thinking absently how much worse it must be for his friends who also suffered the indignity of having their mouths full of dirty linen. He forced himself to a standing position, struggling against the pain in his side and arm as his actions pulled on both. Brunet watched the moment of pain that flashed across the Gascon’s face from the contortions required to stand while tied, and a satisfied smile lit his face. “Well, d’Artagnan, the sun is beginning to set,” he motioned with his head at the yellow ball that was quickly fading to pink as it continued its downward descent from the sky. “Have you made your choice?”

 

d’Artagnan mustered as much saliva as he could, clearing his throat so he could reply, “First, I want your word on two requests. If you give me that and follow through on them, I will make my choice. Otherwise you may as well kill us all now.” It was a dangerous play but he believed Brunet wanted badly enough for him to suffer the death of a Musketeer of his choosing, that the former recruit would concede his requests. He held his breath as he unwaveringly met Brunet’s gaze, praying that he had not miscalculated.

 

“Alright,” Brunet acceded with a broad smile. “What are your requests?”

 

“First, you remove their gags and give them water; why should I choose if one of them is already close to death because you left us all day in the sun.” Brunet paused a moment and then gave a short nod. “Second, I have something to say to my friends and you’ll allow me to speak my peace before I tell you my decision.”

 

“That seems reasonable to me,” Brunet agreed, snapping his fingers to get the attention of one of the bandits who moved away to draw water from the well. d’Artagnan watched his friends carefully as another bandit walked around removing the men’s gags, each man working their jaws now that their mouths were no longer restricted.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos called in a hoarse voice.

 

“No!” Brunet yelled and the closest bandit kicked the Musketeer in the stomach, stopping him from speaking further. Glaring at the three men, he stated, “I did not give any of you permission to speak and if you try again, your gag will be replaced.”

 

Athos pulled himself upright slowly, re-inflating his lungs after the kick had stolen his breath. He glowered at Brunet but didn’t try to say anything more. One of the bandits now returned with a water bucket and ladle and moved from one man to the next, allowing them each a drink of the cool water. When he’d finished with the three older men, he began to move toward the Gascon only to be stopped by Brunet shaking his head. “He didn’t ask for water for himself, just for his friends.” d’Artagnan watched longingly as the bandit dumped the bucket of water onto the ground, his thirst seeming to increase at the sight. “Well, d’Artagnan,” Brunet was looking at him again and d’Artagnan tore his mind away from the spilled water, reminded of his second request.

 

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan looked over at his friend, the larger man offering him a half-grin, the best he was able to muster given his physical condition. “Porthos du Vallon, you are living proof that the worth of a man has nothing to do with his birthright. All you have achieved in life is through your own hard work, determination, and a fierce love of life that is utterly contagious and capable of cutting through the darkest of nights like the brightest sun. In all things you have demonstrated honor and loyalty and a love for your brothers that is so profound it utterly overwhelms all that stands in its way. For all the times you have saved me in battle, and for all that you have taught me, you have my sincere and everlasting thanks.” Porthos’ grin had faded and in its place d’Artagnan could see the man’s desire to speak, but remembering Brunet’s warning, he simply nodded, the Gascon returning his nod before looking next to Aramis.

 

“Aramis, lover, fighter, philosopher.” d’Artagnan saw the soft smile his words brought to his friend’s face and couldn’t help but return it. “You, my friend, are a wonderfully complicated paradox. A man who prays devoutly and might have become a priest, and a skilled soldier who has no equal when armed with a musket. You defend King, country and friends with the same passion that you bring to making love to a beautiful woman. Thank you for the times you have tended me with all of the compassion and skill you possess and for showing me that soldiers are made for more than fighting.” Aramis gave a nod, giving d’Artagnan one of his most sincere smiles, one which the Gascon knew, was reserved only for his closest friends.

 

d’Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment and took a steadying breath before meeting his mentor’s gaze. “Athos, Comte de la Fere, a noble by birth and a gentleman at heart. Life has been unkind to you and yet you do not let it change you, still acting with compassion, intelligence and a fierce determination that I feel privileged to have observed. When I had nothing, you gave me direction, offered me your guidance and a place in your heart. I truly believe that you will never understand what your friendship has meant to me and, sadly, I lack your talent with words to fully express it. Suffice it to say that you are the best man I have ever known.”

 

d’Artagnan turned his gaze from Athos before he could be tempted to respond, encompassing all of his friends. “You are _all_ the finest men I’ve ever known and you challenged me to be better as a result.” Swallowing thickly, he continued, “Before I left for Gascony, I asked for your help. Regardless of your reasons, I ended up riding alone and I’m ashamed to say that I resented you for it. I felt as though I had been cast aside by my friends – my family – and I doubted my place among you.” He could see the regret in his friends’ faces and shook his head. “I was wrong. I realize now that I acted like a petulant child and, if things were different now, I would spend every minute from this point forward making amends.” d’Artagnan paused again, dropping his head for a moment as he collected his thoughts. “Please forgive me for what I’ve done and for what I’m about to do.”

 

As he fell silent, the three men looked at him with anguish on their faces. He saw Porthos drawing breath, his mouth open and ready to speak and he shook his head again, not wanting the man to suffer. “It’s alright, Porthos, there’s no need to say anything more.” Porthos seemed to disagree but he closed his mouth, honoring the Gascon’s request for him to stay silent.

 

The sound of clapping broke the air, intruding on the solemn moment and shattering apart the stillness. “Bravo, d’Artagnan, bravo,” Brunet mocked as he applauded. Dropping his hands, he turned his cold gaze on the Gascon, “Now, I believe it’s time for your part of the bargain.” Snapping his fingers again, a bandit approached, pulling a knife from his belt and slicing neatly through the ropes that held the young Musketeer. As d’Artagnan’s arms fell free, he looked around find a man beside each of his friends, pistols aimed at their heads, while Brunet approached with another pistol extended to him. Uncertain of what was happening, he took the pistol and watched as the would-be Musketeer took several steps backwards, never breaking eye contact with him. “d’Artagnan, you will be the one to kill one of your friends. As you can see, you are surrounded. Should you decide to try firing on me instead, you will all be killed where you stand. Sweeping his arm toward the three Musketeers, he said, “Please, I can’t wait to see who you’ve chosen to pay for your crime.” d’Artagnan was repulsed by the look of glee on the man’s face and he turned away from him, raising the pistol as he aimed at Porthos.

 

The larger man nodded, meeting his eyes unwaveringly and d’Artagnan drew another steadying breath as he shifted his aim to Aramis. The sharpshooter seemed serene and he smiled before closing his eyes, preparing for the strike of the ball which would cut its way through his flesh. Inhaling deeply, d’Artagnan shifted the pistol to Athos, meeting the man’s bright blue eyes and seeing his slight nod of approval at having chosen him. “Thank you all for the privilege of allowing me to be your brother.” D’Artagnan shifted the pistol again and fired, Brunet’s cry splitting the silence that followed.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos reigned for several minutes but the Musketeers were well trained and they descended on the men in the courtyard with a skill and efficiency that can only be achieved through a complete commitment to refining one’s art. Treville had watched in shock as his Musketeer had fallen, the ball burying itself deep in his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the wonderful comments on the last chapter and for the speculation about who got shot. All is revealed in this next chapter - enjoy!

Fouquet had ridden his horse hard and as man and beast stumbled through the garrison gates, the stable boy came running, shocked at the froth-covered, heaving state of the Musketeer’s steed. The man threw the reins to the boy, trusting that he would do what was necessary and bounded for Treville’s office, boots stamping a rhythm on the wooden steps as he ran. Two knocks on the door were all the time he waited before entering, Treville looking up expectantly when the Musketeer barged in.

 

“Report,” Treville’s tone was hard, but he knew his instincts had been correct and the news Fouquet was bringing was not positive.

 

“You were right, Captain. They were attacked late yesterday and then taken north to an abandoned farmhouse. The men who have them look like the same ones we fought in Gascony,” Fouquet reported.

 

“Damn,” the Captain swore lowly.

 

“That’s not all, Captain. Brunet is their leader,” the Musketeer explained.

 

Treville’s eyes narrowed at the news of the recruit turned traitor. “Muster the men.” Fouquet nodded and left to do as he’d been told. The Captain scrubbed a hand across his face as he confronted the unhappy realization that his concerns had been proven, and grimaced at the thought that his four best men were once again in enemy hands; worse yet, an enemy who’d been recently thwarted by the very men they held, a certain recipe for disaster. He moved to the chest that held his heavier leathers, pulling them out before grabbing his weapons and heading out to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Outside, the men had mustered and he looked at the sea of expectant faces, knowing that he would once more be asking them to ride into danger but that they would not falter.

 

“Four of your brothers have been taken by a group of bandits led by the recruit Brunet. I need ten volunteers to help stage a rescue. From past experience, these men are well armed and skilled; I expect it to be a difficult battle.” Men began to step forward immediately as he finished speaking and Treville couldn’t help the proud smile that graced his face. He nodded to the men who wanted to accompany him and who were now waiting for their orders, “It is a day’s ride and we have no time to spare. Prepare yourselves; we leave in half an hour.”

 

As the men below dispersed to gather what they’d need, he descended the stairs to where Fouquet stood waiting. “I’ll need you to draw a map to where they’re being held.”  

 

“I’ve already asked the stable boy to saddle a fresh horse. I’m off to eat something and will be ready to lead you to their location,” Fouquet replied.

 

Treville looked at the man in front of him, well aware that he must have ridden through the night to bring news of the Musketeers’ fate to him this morning. While Fouquet looked tired, anticipation shone in his eyes and the Captain nodded, placing a hand on the Musketeer’s arm for a moment to express his thanks. He watched the soldier walk away, inhaling deeply as he strode toward the stable to get his own horse ready for the ride ahead of them.

 

When the assigned time arrived, Treville and Fouquet led the way out of the garrison, soon moving toward Bourges, but with the knowledge that they would eventually be diverting to the north in search of their comrades. They managed to travel for several hours before the horses needed rest and the men stopped impatiently, the thrum of expectation nearly a tangible thing as the soldiers watered their horses and took sustenance for themselves. An hour later, the men were seated once more, horses cantering forward at a steady pace.

 

It was nearly sunset when they arrived at the house where Brunet held the four men and Treville ordered everyone to dismount several hundred meters away before making their approach quietly on foot. Treville left the majority of the men hidden in a small copse of trees, creeping stealthily forward with Sebastian and Thierry to gather intelligence about the force they were facing. When they were close enough to have a line of sight to the courtyard, they were shocked to find the four Musketeers tied, with Brunet at their centre and a half-dozen armed men in varying positions around the others. They could hear snatches of words and Treville deduced that it was d’Artagnan who was speaking but they were too far away to make out any of what he was saying. Feeling the need to understand more of what was happening, he pointed to an old wagon which sat against the posts of the low courtyard fence, and the three moved forward until they were hidden by the cart’s structure.

 

Pointing to Sebastian, he next pointed to Brunet, silently ordering the man to aim his harquebus at the traitorous recruit. Turning to Thierry, he used additional hand gestures to communicate his instructions to return to the others and have the men take up shooting positions at three locations around the courtyard. Treville focused his attention back on the events unfolding in front of him, surprised to see a man step forward and cut d’Artagnan’s bindings. When Brunet stepped forward and handed a pistol to the Gascon, the Captain’s anxiety escalated, and he drew his own weapon in preparation to fire. Taking aim he watched as d’Artagnan’s pistol wavered, moving from Porthos to Aramis and finally Athos. Taking a deep breath, Treville stood and exposed himself to anyone who chose to look in his direction, trusting that his other men would be in position and ready to defend him. As d’Artagnan’s pistol shifted a last time, he heard the shot, followed immediately afterwards by a cry from Brunet, and Treville pulled the trigger, releasing his pistol’s ball.

* * *

Chaos reigned for several minutes but the Musketeers were well trained and they descended on the men in the courtyard with a skill and efficiency that can only be achieved through a complete commitment to refining one’s art. Treville had watched in shock as his Musketeer had fallen, the ball burying itself deep in his side. He’d hesitated for only a moment before discharging his own pistol, his and Sebastian’s shots both finding their mark and felling Brunet. Other shots followed fast on the heels of their own, Treville recognizing that the men under his command had begun their assault, and he watched dispassionately as several of the bandits fell. Moments later he had vaulted over the fence, sword in his hand as he led the attack on the remaining rebels, studiously tuning out the shouts that came from the remaining three captured Musketeers, having no time to release them while Brunet’s men continued to pose a threat. He had time only to bring down one man before the skirmish had ended, and he stood, breathing heavily, in the midst of his men, fallen and bleeding bodies strewn around them. Wiping his sword with a gloved hand, he slid the steel into its sheath and lifted his head to meet the shattered gaze of his lieutenant, but the other Musketeer was focusing elsewhere, on the body of his fallen brother.

 

Although he knew that Athos was straining to get free so he could check on his friend, Treville made the decision to check first, needing to know whether he would need to prepare for a grieving Comte or a relieved one. “Let me have a look,” he called to Athos, already in motion to the unmoving man. He dropped to one knee, noting the blood that pooled at the man’s side and his already clammy and lax face. Removing a glove, he reached a shaky hand forward, placing his fingers on the Musketeer’s throat and praying for a pulse. Several seconds passed and he’d nearly given up hope when he detected the faintest beat, thready and weak, but still thumping reassuringly. He dropped his head for a moment, needing to steady himself. When he turned back to Athos, the man’s face was stricken, having misinterpreted his Captain’s actions as grief rather than relief. “He’s alive, Athos,” Treville called, already pulling his doublet apart to rip at the hem of his shirt, balling up a length of the linen to press it firmly to the bleeding wound.

 

Behind him, others had gotten around to freeing the three from the ropes that held them and, in moments, he was surrounded by three worried faces, Aramis dropping next to him, hands already moving toward the wound. With a quick glance at his Captain, Aramis asked with a breathy voice, “May I?” Treville relinquished his hold, allowing the medic to lift the sodden cloth to peer underneath. There was little to be seen other than the vast amount of blood that had been spilled and the Captain helped loosen the wounded man’s doublet, pulling it open before lifting the once white shirt. Aramis sucked in a quick breath as the extent of the injury was revealed, motioning for the Captain to help him roll the injured man, exposing the exit wound at his back. Aramis crossed himself quickly, sending a prayer of thanks that the ball did not still sit in the man’s side. He scrubbed a hand through his curls, unknowingly streaking blood across his brow and through his hair, mind still clouded from his head wound and the hours spent in the heat, “I’ll need my supplies, in my saddle bag…” he tried to rise, stumbling and nearly falling back to the ground, only to be steadied by Athos.

 

The older man looked at Treville, a note of desperation in his voice, “Aramis has a head injury and we’ve spent the day in the heat. I’m not certain his hands are steady enough for this.”

 

“No, Athos, I can do this!” Aramis protested, still leaning on Athos to keep him upright.

 

Seeing the look on Treville’s face, Athos assured his friend, “It’s alright, Aramis, the Captain’s needlework is not nearly as fine as yours but it will do the job. Perhaps you can assist him instead.” Aramis still looked unwilling to hand his brother’s care over to another, but Athos was gently pulling him away, allowing the other Musketeers who had arrived to lift the fallen man and carry him into the house. Treville and the others followed them inside and the Captain experienced another surge of pride at seeing the bed the men had prepared for them, others already laying out brandy and fresh bandages, while others still brought water. Chairs appeared in the room, scavenged from throughout the rest of the house and Athos gratefully let Aramis sink into one next to Treville, while he sat on another just behind the medic, keeping one hand on the man’s shoulder in case he should falter. He could feel the fine tremors that ran through Aramis’ frame and knew that he’d need to lay down soon, but also understood that none of them would be moved until the fate of the wounded man was clear. Across from them, their other brother sat, laying a hand on the wounded man’s wrist, needing confirmation that the man’s heart still pumped.

 

Aramis’ hand reached for a clean cloth and he wiped at his friend’s injured side, Treville pouring water across the wound to clear the blood away. Next came a portion of brandy, and Athos kept a firm hand on his emotions at the lack of movement coming from his injured friend, even in response to the burn of strong spirits. Treville threaded the needle and allowed Aramis to douse it in more brandy before leaning forward to place his first stitch, d’Artagnan lying as still as death while his Captain worked to save his life.

* * *

When the dual wounds at the front and back of d’Artagnan’s flank had been stitched, Athos had helped Aramis finishing undressing the young man and clean away the remaining blood from his ordeal, the sight of which seemed to be causing the medic a great deal of distress. While they worked, Athos had asked one of the other men to bring a pitcher of water and cups and he continued to push fluids on both his friends. They had all stripped out of their doublets and shirts as soon as the initial panic over d’Artagnan’s wound had passed, but all of them were dealing with the effects of their day in the sun, suffering from vicious headaches, intermittent dizziness and chills. The Captain had tended to Porthos’ wound once he’d finished with the Gascon and ordered him to lay down on one of the pallets his men had arranged in the room, understanding that none of the three would be willing to be apart from their youngest member while his survival was still uncertain.  

 

It seemed like hours later when Athos slumped into a chair next to d’Artagnan’s bed, laying a cooling cloth on the young man’s brow as he lay quietly, body ravaged by fever from the previous wound on his arm, which had become infected. With Aramis’ guidance, Treville had created a poultice for Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s wounds which the Captain had bound into place with clean linen. Afterwards, Treville and Athos had helped a nearly gray Aramis lay down, removing his boots and breeches as he breathed slowly through his mouth, trying to keep the nausea from the heatstroke and head wound at bay. He had ultimately lost the battle with his stomach and Athos had held the medic in his arms as he’d heaved, losing the precious few cupfuls of water that he’d managed to consume. In between his bouts of illness, he’d let out a low keening sound which tore at Athos’ heart, the ache in his head exacerbated as his stomach rebelled. Aramis was clammy with sweat by the time that his belly finally settled, and Athos took great care in wiping down his face and chest before pulling a blanket up to his chin, the medic shivering as his body still struggled to regulate its temperature.

 

Now, he felt ready to collapse, barely able to keep his eyes open and fighting against the throbbing of his own head. Placing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward to drop his head into his hands, which is how Treville found him. “Athos,” he spoke quietly, not wanting to startle the man. “You’ve done all you can; it’s time for you to rest now.” The Captain placed a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder, waiting for a response. Seconds later, Athos nodded, head still tipped forward. Gently, Treville gripped Athos’ upper arm and lifted him to his feet, guiding the Musketeer to the last vacant pallet. He pushed the man to sit down and helped him pull off his boots before pressing a hand to the man’s chest, encouraging him to lay down. Athos’ eyelids were already drooping but he forced them open for a moment longer, pinning his Captain with a pleading look. “Don’t worry, Athos, I’ll watch over them.” Athos’ eyes slipped shut and his breathing slowed into sleep. “I’ll watch over all of you,” Treville promised as he rose and took the seat next to the Gascon’s bed.

 

It was now late into the night and while Treville was tired, he knew that none of his men would rest unless someone trusted cared for their wounded. After he tended to the men’s injuries, he’d left for a short while to confirm that his other men had things well in hand, having disposed of the bandits’ bodies, secured the house and surrounding area, set a patrol and taken care of the horses. Assured that everything was taken care of, he’d returned to find Athos slumped in his seat and he knew that he would have to intervene to ensure the man rested, rather than running himself into the ground while caring for his injured friends.

 

He’d seen the haunted look in Athos’ eyes and was admittedly shocked himself at the fact that d’Artagnan had turned the pistol away from the others and shot himself instead. Treville had managed to gather bits and pieces of the story from Athos as they’d settled Aramis, and he knew that the image of the Gascon’s shooting would likely stay with all of them for a long time into the future. As he removed the cloth from the boy’s forehead and cooled it in the basin of water, he couldn’t decide whether to be angry or proud of the young man for his decision. The way Athos had described things, there had been little choice, Brunet placing the Gascon into the impossible situation of killing one of his friends or allowing all of them to perish. Brunet’s face had been twisted with rage at d’Artagnan’s actions and Treville had little doubt that the other Musketeers would have been executed to satiate the man’s anger if he and his men had not intervened, a conclusion that made the officer wonder if the Gascon had had any sort of plan beyond firing at himself.

 

Now he was surrounded by four ailing Musketeers, spanning the gamut between “barely hanging on” to “just needs proper food and rest”. There was no doubt in his mind that the men would struggle to recover from the episode, even assuming that their physical wounds healed without issue, and he made a mental note to himself to excuse the men from duty for a significant amount of time so they could properly recuperate in mind as well as body. A moan from the man in front of him drew his attention and he placed a calming hand on the Gascon’s shoulder, uncertain whether the boy was waking or just restless from the pain and fever that held him in its grip. Seconds passed and another whimper sounded, pulling the Captain closer in an attempt to call d’Artagnan to awareness.

 

Speaking softly, he said, “d’Artagnan, it’s Captain Treville. Can you open your eyes for me?” The young man’s head lolled to one side, toward Treville, but his eyes remained closed. “d’Artagnan, you’re hurt but you’re safe now. It’s important that you wake up for a moment.” Wetting the cloth once more, Treville wiped it across the boy’s face and neck, hoping to rouse him further. A soft sigh escaped the young man, bringing a smile to the Captain’s face. Clasping the Gascon’s cheek, he tried again, “d’Artagnan, if would make me very happy if I could tell your friends that you’ve been awake since we stitched your wound.”

 

d’Artagnan’s brow furrowed at Treville’s words and he pulled at heavy eyelids, finally managing to open them half-way, staring blearily at the face above him. The Captain smiled at seeing the boy’s brown eyes as he reached for the cup of water he’d prepared earlier, gently lifting the boy’s head before tipping the cup to his lips, pouring a little into the young man’s mouth. When he’d replaced d’Artagnan’s head on the pillow, the young man licked his cracked lips, breathing out a question, “What happened?”

 

Treville placed a hand on the Gascon’s chest, laying it there lightly as a reminder to stay still as he replied, “You had been captured by Brunet and his men. As I understand it, he was trying to force you to shoot one of the others and you decided to turn the pistol on yourself instead.” Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “I trust you had a plan in mind?”

 

The Gascon licked his lips again and Treville helped him with another drink, waiting patiently for the young man to answer, “Thought I’d be able to stay awake,” he whispered, pausing to catch his breath. “Hoped he’d come over…could grab his dagger…kill him before anyone else got hurt.” d’Artagnan squeezed his eyes closed as he fought a wave of pain, his breathing harsh and unsteady.

 

Treville gave his head a small shake at the boy’s misguided actions, vowing to set him straight once he was feeling better. When the boy’s eyes reopened, the Captain gave a soft smile, “Not sure that’s the best plan as plans go, but you managed to survive it.”

 

“Others?” d’Artagnan questioned, struggling to keep his eyes open.

 

“They’re all fine. I stitched Porthos’ arm myself and tucked the other two into bed. They’re all asleep and I think you should join them,” Treville suggested. The Gascon gave a low hum of agreement and let his eyes fall closed, too weary to remain awake any longer. The Captain leaned back in his chair, relieved that the boy had at least woken, even though his condition was still far too grave; perhaps it was a positive sign of good things to come.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d’Artagnan achieved his goal, leaning his head on the wall as Athos glared at him. “What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish? Are you trying to finish what you started with that pistol?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off let me just say, wow, at the number of kudos and comments. I'm overwhelmed and humbled by the interest and support this story has garnered and can only say thank you to everyone who's come along for the ride. It's been an incredible experience for me to hear your perspectives on my story and I can't thank you enough for sharing your thoughts. This is the second-last chapter and the final one will be up tomorrow. I hope you enjoy!

The room was unquestionably too small a space to accommodate so many, but they would have to make do until either Athos or Aramis awoke and could be persuaded to rest elsewhere. Regardless, the Captain was grateful when Sebastian joined him, settling down next to Porthos to try to cool the fevered man as his skin burned ever hotter. Porthos’ wound would not have normally been considered dire, but the ball had lodged itself in the muscle next to the bone and infection, coupled with blood loss, had conspired to make the affable Musketeer very ill. In truth, Treville was just as worried about the large man as he was about the Gascon. Different Musketeers rotated through the room during the night, the Captain the only constant, unwilling to give up his vigilant position at d’Artagnan’s bedside lest one of the men awaken.

 

The first streaks of dawn found Treville yawning widely, no longer able to fool his body into believing that he didn’t require sleep, and he’d resigned himself to having to wake Athos shortly so that could go rest. Before he had the chance to do so, Porthos accomplished the feat for him, beginning to thrash and moan in his fevered sleep, causing Aramis and Athos to awake almost instantly, so attuned were they to their brothers’ needs. Aramis lay on the pallet next to Porthos and, even before his eyes were fully open, he’d rolled onto his side, reaching a hand out to the man to comfort him. As Aramis struggled to come fully awake, head still pounding from the blow to his head, Athos had risen from his bed and made his way to Porthos’ other side, taking the place of the latest Musketeer who’d been tending to him. Treville stood and moved nearer also, catching Athos’ eye, “His fever has been rising steadily throughout the night and so far nothing we’ve done has helped.” Their gazes turned back to the ailing man as they heard him mumble, clearly distressed by his fevered dreams and the Captain added, “I believe he’s reliving the moment when d’Artagnan shot himself.”

 

Athos’ face fell, having replayed the event himself numerous times, completely at a loss as to why the young man had decided on such a drastic course of action and still struggling to deal the emotions that the memory evoked. Aramis interrupted his musings, pushing himself up on one elbow, his other hand on Porthos’ chest. His head hung low to his chest as he battled his sore head and forced quiet words through his lips, “Tea, from the herbs in my bag. Let it steep for at least 10 minutes.”

 

Athos nodded at Treville’s raised eyebrow, and the officer moved away to do as Aramis had suggested, grateful that the men’s belongings had remained with their horses rather than being plundered by the bandits. As Athos wiped the sweat from Porthos’ face and neck, he spoke lowly to the medic, “How is your head?”

 

Aramis raised it just enough to lift his eyes to the other man’s face as he groaned. “Feels as though someone is trying to take the top of my skull off,” he said as he dropped it once more, “and they’re doing it with a dull blade, in time with the beating of my heart.” Taking a steadying breath, he tried to manage the pain, “How is he?”

 

“Seems to have settled with our presence but his skin burns with fever,” Athos replied worriedly.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis hummed, “how is the wound?”

 

Both men fell silent as Athos removed the bandage from Porthos’ arm, discarding the used poultice at the same time, “Still red and swollen, but no worse than last night when it was stitched.”

 

Aramis forced himself up further so he could see for himself, squinting blearily as his eyes protested the light in the room. Falling back down to his elbow again, he instructed, “Wipe it clean and make another poultice; d’Artagnan too. Pour as much of the tea down his throat as you can manage.” He slumped back onto his pallet, keeping a hand on Porthos as he laid down, lacking the strength to stay upright any longer but trusting that his friend was in good hands with Athos at his side. “Wake me if he gets any worse.”

 

A soft grin lit Athos’ face as his friend laid down to rest again, and he waited at Porthos’ side until Treville returned with the tea. “Thank you,” he murmured as he took the proffered cup. “Aramis said to make up a new poultice for both their wounds.”

 

The Captain nodded, “I’ll get them ready for you.”

 

Ten minutes later, Athos had coaxed a reluctant Porthos’ into swallowing half the tea and Treville was laying a new poultice across his wound, holding it in place with clean linen. The Captain stood, preparing to leave, “I need to sleep for a few hours but call one of the others if you need anything. Do you want me to check on d’Artagnan before I go?”

 

Athos looked down at Porthos, seeing him resting quietly and shook his head, “I should be fine for now. How was his night?”

 

Treville allowed himself a small smile, “He woke at one point and took some water; he asked about all of you.” Shaking his head with a mix of fondness and annoyance he said, “Fool thought that by shooting himself he’d be able to overpower Brunet and save you. Perhaps once he’s recovered you can instruct him on the difference between tactical recklessness and ingenuity.”

 

Athos’ face had grown neutral and Treville knew that the man was trying to hide how deeply he’d been affected by the Gascon’s brash move, “Be assured that we will _all_ help him with that lesson.”

 

The Captain nodded, turning with a small wave, off to find a place of his own where he could catch a few hours’ sleep. Athos moved from Porthos’ side to d’Artagnan’s, placing a hand on the boy’s brow and frowning at the heat he found there. Unlike Porthos, d’Artagnan’s skin was dry and Athos could see that he was still dehydrated. Placing one hand beneath the boy’s head, he lifted it gently, bringing a cup of water to his lips in the hope that the touch of the cool liquid would prompt him to drink. Instead, d’Artagnan’s eyes fluttered and Athos gave a half-smile at seeing the boy awake. He tipped the cup to the Gascon’s lips again, ordering, “Drink.” The young man’s mouth opened and he drank several swallows before Athos pulled the cup away. “We’ll try some more in a little while.” Laying the boy’s head back down, he moved his hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

 

d’Artagnan’s hand shifted slowly on the bed, moving to his left side where a swath of bandages covered the two holes. Athos’ captured his hand and laid it back on the bed. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The Captain will be unhappy if you ruin his fine needlework.”

 

The comment put a look of panic on the Gascon’s face as he mumbled, “Aramis?” 

 

“Fine, but his head is paining him. He was somewhat too unsteady last night to sew you up,” Athos explained. d’Artagnan gave a short nod, swallowing as he closed his eyes for a moment. “d’Artagnan, I know you probably don’t feel very well right now, but I need to replace the poultice on your arm and check the wounds on your side.” Another small nod followed and Athos put down the cup of water so he could remove the soiled bandage. Athos’ nimble fingers worked to carefully clean away the remnants of the used poultice before placing the fresh one and covering it with a clean bandage. Next, he moved to the self-inflicted wounds and was satisfied that they seemed to be healing well, so far free from infection. d’Artagnan tried to make the process easier on his friend by swallowing his sounds of discomfort, but his face was screwed up with pain and his breaths came unevenly by the time Athos had finished. “Water?” Athos offered.

 

“Please,” d’Artagnan answered breathlessly and, with Athos’ help, he finished the rest of the cup. Forcing his eyes to focus on Athos, he asked, “Brunet?”

 

Athos’ tone was flat as he answered, “Dead, as are most of his men. The Captain apparently suspected that we might be in danger and had Fouquet follow us. When we were attacked, he was able to ride back to the garrison and inform Treville. He and the others arrived in time to save us but sadly not soon enough to prevent you from harming yourself.” Even half out of his head with pain and fever, d’Artagnan could hear the self-recrimination in Athos’ voice.

 

Reaching a hand out to search for his friend’s, d’Artagnan captured Athos’ gaze as he declared, “Not your fault, it was my choice. _My_ choice.”

 

Athos held the young man’s gaze for several seconds and then grudgingly nodded as he squeezed the boy’s hand, “Once you are up to it, we will be having a very serious conversation about your complete lack of self-preservation and your tactical folly.” His lips quirked slightly as he spoke and d’Artagnan managed a partial smile as he nodded. “Now, rest, your body has suffered much over the past few days.” Never one to disobey Athos’ orders, d’Artagnan’s eyes willingly slipped closed and he gave himself over to the dark.

* * *

Athos sat comfortably for over an hour, watching over his friends and moving between Porthos and d’Artagnan as he continued his efforts to keep them cool from the fevers that gripped them both. In the past few minutes, he’d begun to see signs of discomfort from Aramis and knew the man would be waking soon, likely no longer able to remain asleep due to the pain in his head. In preparation, he poured a cup of water for his friend and then waited patiently until the man rolled slowly onto his back, lifted a hand to his face, shading the light, and opened his eyes. Athos moved quietly to crouch beside his pallet, blocking more of the light that streamed through the single window. “Aramis, how are you?”

 

Aramis lifted his hand slightly, testing the limits of his fragile skull, and gave his friend a wan smile. “Better,” he replied, “honestly. Concussions are such an inconvenience.” He sighed carefully, not wanting to inadvertently jar his head. Athos brought the cup of water into the medic’s line of sight and he reached for it gratefully, happily accepting Athos’ help sitting further upright so he could drink. Once he was propped against his pillow, which in turn lay against the wall, he took a sip, a smile of satisfaction on his face at the sweet taste of the cool liquid.

 

Athos’ lips quirked in return as he coaxed his friend, “Drink it all. We are all dehydrated from yesterday’s events.” As Aramis took another drink, Athos asked, “Are you hungry?”

 

The medic paused, the cup half-way to his mouth as he considered the state of his belly. “Maybe broth,” he replied.

 

Athos nodded and stood, “I’ll be right back. Try not to move around too much.”

 

Aramis gave a minor tilt of his head to show his understanding before draining the cup and placing it on the floor beside him. With a steadying breath, he rolled to his side and observed Porthos, reaching a hand forward to feel his friend’s brow. “Oh, Porthos, my friend,” he tsked. Retracting his hand, he pushed himself to a seated position and then waited several seconds for his dizziness to pass. Next, he got his feet under him and stood up, leaning against the wall as the floor beneath him bucked for several long moments. When he was satisfied that he wasn’t in danger of either falling over or being sick, he shuffled gingerly to Porthos’ other side where a basin sat, and he cooled the cloth that lay there before placing it on Porthos’ forehead. The switch from crouching to standing again made the room waver around him and when it had steadied, he made his way to d’Artagnan’s side, sinking into the chair at his bedside. His actions were repeated with the young man, this time producing a hum of approval as the cooler skin he found. As he was lifting the bandage at the boy’s flank, he felt the body beneath his hands stiffen and he looked up to find two pain-filled orbs looking back at him.

 

A genuine, wide smile on his face, he greeted the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, you’re awake.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a small nod, “Not sure I can sleep anymore.”

 

Aramis frowned, certain that the boy’s injuries were severe enough to have robbed him of his strength and have his body begging for rest. He took a second look, noting the crinkling around the boy’s eyes and the shallow, panting quality of his breaths. “You’re in pain,” he declared, shifting to stand.

 

d’Artagnan watched his friend’s face pale as he stood and called to him, “No, Aramis, it’s alright. I can handle it.”

 

With a hand on the chair back, Aramis threw him a disbelieving look, and then turned to see Athos reappear. At the older man’s raised eyebrow, Aramis flicked a hand toward the Gascon, “He’s in pain.” Athos gave a nod, pushing the medic back into his seat with a hand on one shoulder, before passing him the cup of broth he’d brought. “You have something in your bag?” he asked, waiting for instructions.

 

“Powder in a small satchel. Mix a pinch with water,” Aramis replied, taking a first appreciative sip of the warm, flavourful broth.

 

“I’ll be right back,” Athos answered.

 

d'Artagnan observed Aramis as he drank, noting the half-open eyes and the pinched quality of his face, suggesting that the medic was feely quite poorly as well. “Are you alright?” the Gascon asked, worried about his friend’s appearance.

 

Aramis would have snorted if it wasn’t for his sore head, but instead chose to give the young man a pointed look, “I’m not the one who turned a pistol on himself.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a half-hearted shrug, “Didn’t know what else to do.”

 

“d’Artagnan, shooting yourself is never an option,” Aramis countered. “I mean, really, who would see Athos home safely from the tavern if it weren’t for you?” The Gascon’s reaction was immediate as he blanched at the medic’s words, nearly choking on an inhale. He turned his head and looked away, hoping Aramis hadn’t seen his reaction, but it was not to be.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. He’d meant the comment as a joke, a way of lightening the mood while at the same time letting the boy know how dear he was to them. Instead, he’d managed the exact opposite and he cursed his words as he realized that the situation in Paris still hung over them like a dark cloud. “d’Artagnan, please, I meant nothing by it.”

 

Taking a steadying breath, the Gascon turned his head back and put as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, “I know, think nothing of it.” He closed his eyes, hoping the man would move away but his friend’s warm hand still rested on his shoulder.

 

“Here we are,” Athos entered, carrying the pain draught he’d mixed. He looked at the serious expression on Aramis’ face and then noticed d’Artagnan’s closed eyes. “Is he asleep?” he asked quietly. Aramis grimaced and shook his head, mouthing to his friend, “Talk to him.” With a hand from Athos, Aramis pulled himself to his feet and shuffled back to Porthos’ side, allowing the older man to sit beside the Gascon.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’ve brought something for your pain,” Athos said.

 

The young man opened his eyes, unsurprised that the two men had switched places. With a glance at the cup Athos held, d’Artagnan braced himself and then struggled to push up on one elbow. Athos reached his free hand for him as soon as he started to move, protesting his actions, “d’Artagnan, stop, you’ll tear your stitches.” The Gascon paid him no heed and continued to try to shift himself further up on the bed so he could lean his head and shoulders against the wall. “Stop,” Athos spoke again, his volume increasing as his concern for the boy spiked with the boy’s harsh breaths. d’Artagnan achieved his goal, leaning his head on the wall as Athos glared at him. “What, exactly, were you trying to accomplish? Are you trying to finish what you started with that pistol?”

 

d’Artagnan looked as if he’d been slapped, a look of hurt flashing across his face before his eyes shuttered, erasing all sign of emotion. He reached out for the pain draught with a trembling hand and drank deeply, holding Athos’ gaze the entire time. When he’d drained the cup, he held it out for the older man to take, letting his arm drop to his side as he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to abate. Athos scrubbed a hand across his face and took a deep breath, “d’Artagnan, I am sorry. Worry has made my tongue sharp and I spoke out of turn.”

 

Athos’ admission loosened the band of steel that seemed to have tightened around d’Artagnan’s heart, and he recalled the words he’d spoken to the three men earlier when he thought they might all die. He’d been sincere and yet, now that they were all still alive, he found his promise to move beyond what had happened somehow unattainable. Aramis’ words had brought the hurt he’d felt earlier back in full force. He’d feared that they might never be able to return to what they’d had prior to him leaving for Gascony; now, he feared that they _would_ return to the way things had been, a thought he inexplicably found even more abhorrent.

 

“Athos,” Aramis called and d’Artagnan opened his eyes, seeing Athos rising from his seat and moving to Porthos’ side. The large man was restless and clearly unwell, his normally swarthy complexion significantly pallid and covered in sweat. Aramis was sitting beside him unwrapping his arm and the medic motioned to Athos to hold his patient still as he examined the infected wound. d’Artagnan let his head drop back against the wall, eyes slipping closed as the pain finally eased and exhaustion claimed him once more. As a result, he missed Aramis needing to open Porthos’ wound to clean and drain it; he missed Aramis kissing the crucifix that hung around his neck as he whispered desperate prayers for his friend to recover; and he missed the hours the two men sat vigil over Porthos’ bed as they waited for his fever to break.

 

When he awoke, the three men were asleep, Aramis on his pallet next to Porthos’ with a hand on the man’s wrist, and Athos on the other side sitting on the floor, back against the wall. d’Artagnan felt hot and uncomfortable and had a pressing need to get up. With a glance at the three men, he decided not to wake them, knowing that they were all recovering as well and likely needed their rest. With a hand bracing his wounded side, he pushed with his other, grateful that he wasn’t lying flat, making it a little bit easier to get himself up. When he was sitting mostly upright, he held himself in place with a trembling hand, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass, which he idly recognized as being caused by his recent blood loss. When his vision had cleared sufficiently, he gained his feet, steadying himself on the chair beside his bed, standing bent nearly in half as the wounds in his side flared and pulled painfully. He gasped with the intensity of the ache, doing his best to slow his breathing as his vision dimmed dangerously, warning him that standing was a very bad idea. His could feel minor tremors travelling through his frame and his bladder reminded him of why he’d left his bed in the first place.

 

Lifting his head, he took another look at the sleeping men, considering for a moment whether he should ask for their help before discarding the idea and taking a step forward. As soon as he shifted his weight forward onto his lead foot, his leg crumbled, his body following as his hold on the chair loosened. His mind registered a loud thump as his body hit the floor, before darkness descended and consciousness slipped from his grasp.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is no need to say anything,” Athos assured him. “Just know in your heart that you will never be cast aside by your brothers.”

Athos and Aramis startled awake at the thud and crash that accompanied d’Artagnan’s body falling to the ground, followed by the chair which he’d unbalanced and which fell behind him. Even Porthos in his fevered state jumped at the noise, although it wasn’t enough for him to fully awake. At Porthos’ movements, Aramis rolled over to check on him, concern rising that his friend’s condition may have worsened yet again. Athos, in the meantime, was quickly in motion, rising to his feet when he saw the Gascon’s body laying still and uncomfortably twisted on the floor.

 

The sound had apparently been loud enough for others to hear and, as Athos crouched at d’Artagnan’s side, Treville and Fouquet appeared at the door to the small room. “What happened?” the Captain asked, even as Athos tried to rouse the young man.

 

“No idea,” Athos replied, slowly rolling the boy onto his back, tapping a hand on his cheek. “We were asleep,” he explained grimly, already chastising himself for allowing himself to rest.

 

Treville manoeuvered around the small space and positioned himself on the Gascon’s other side, eyes narrowing when he saw the spots of red seeping through the bandages that covered his flank. “Let’s get him back into bed so we can have a look at his wounds. I have a feeling he’s torn some of his stitches.”

 

Athos nodded, and between the two of them, they lifted the young man onto the bed, Aramis watching from his spot across the room, waiting to see if he’d be needed. Athos sat on the bed beside d’Artagnan while Treville righted the fallen chair and sat down to remove the bandages, which were becoming rapidly stained with crimson. When the Gascon’s side was exposed, the Captain swore softly under his breath at the red and sore looking wounds which were both seeping blood where the thread he’d placed earlier had given way. “I’ll need to pull these stitches and re-do them,” he said, looking up at the older Musketeer. The man inclined his head slightly in understanding as he reached for a wet cloth and wiped it across d’Artagnan’s face in an effort to bring the young man around.

 

Treville left to get his supplies and Aramis made motions to stand, Athos waving him back with a hand, “There’s nothing to be done, Aramis. The Captain will close the wounds and, when he wakes, d’Artagnan will provide us with a reasonable explanation for why he was out of bed a day after nearly bleeding out.” Aramis flinched at Athos’ harsh tone, recognizing the concern that laced his words.

 

Within minutes, the Captain had returned and wiped the blood away from entry wound, pulling the remaining stitches in preparation for placing new ones. As the needle pierced d’Artagnan’s skin, Athos noted the grimace on the young man’s face and the sudden stiffness in the previously lax body, indicating the boy’s readiness to awake. “Captain, a moment if you please. I believe our young Gascon is about to join us.” Treville paused and watched d’Artagnan’s face as Athos tapped on one cheek in an effort to wake him. Seconds later, the Gascon managed to pull open his eyelids, blinking several times before inhaling sharply, the pain from his injured side registering and momentarily overwhelming him. Athos moved a hand to the boy’s chest, murmuring soft words of comfort as he coached the boy to slow his breathing and relax.

 

“Athos, wha’?” d’Artagnan mumbled, confused at why he felt so much worse than before.

 

“You fell and ripped your stitches. The Captain was just about to place new ones,” Athos explained, watching as d’Artagnan’s face turned red, deciding that an explanation could wait until later. Softening his tone, he asked, “Do you need something for the pain before we begin?” The Gascon was still horrified thinking about the fact that he’d have to explain at some point his reasons for being out of bed, and couldn’t imagine explaining that he’d needed the chamber pot. He shook his head quickly, not wanting to draw further attention to his plight and needing the Captain to finish as quickly as possible. Athos gave a nod and reached for d’Artagnan’s right hand, gripping it tightly in his own. Seeking the Captain’s eyes, he said, “We’re ready now.” Treville wasted no time and efficiently closed first one wound and then the other, impressed at the young Gascon’s ability to remain still as he’d worked although it had clearly cost the boy dearly as he was now breathing unsteadily and racked with mild tremors.

 

“Thank you, Captain,” Athos said when Treville had finished and the officer stood and moved away, recognizing the two men’s need for privacy. He checked quickly on Aramis and Porthos and then left the room, taking Fouquet with him, leaving a blanket silence that weighed heavily on the men and which no one seemed inclined to break. Sighing, Athos finally decided to take the lead, his hand still wrapped around d’Artagnan’s as it seemed to be a comfort to them both. “What were you doing out of bed?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

 

d’Artagnan looked away from his mentor as he replied in a small voice, “I needed the chamber pot.”

 

Understanding dawned on Athos’ face as he looked around the room for the desired item, “Can I assume that this need still exists?” The young man gave a short nod, still unable to meet Athos’ eyes. “Aramis,” he called to his friend, the other man rising slowly and bringing the chamber pot to rest at the side of the bed. Between the two of them, they raised d’Artagnan up so he could take care of his needs, settling him back on the bed when he’d finished. When they were done, Aramis settled on the chair while Athos re-took his position on the bed.

 

Looking between the two men, d’Artagnan advised, “There’s no need to stay. I’m fine and I’m not planning on getting up again anytime soon.”

 

With a glance at the older man, Aramis’ lips quirked into a smile, “Need, no, but perhaps we _want_ to sit with you.”

 

The young man looked genuinely confused at the medic’s words as he replied, “Why? Besides, Porthos seems so ill; I’m certain your time would be better spent caring for him.”

 

Now it was the older men who looked confused as Athos explained, “Porthos is resting easily right now and it is you who are in pain. It is no less than you have done for us in the past.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a one-sided shrug, favoring his tender left side as the ache from his freshly stitched wounds continued to war for his attention. Aramis leaned forward slightly, placing a hand on the Gascon’s arm, “It is what friends do for each other, is it not?” Another shrug was the only reply as both men’s brows furrowed at the young man’s lack of response.

 

“d’Artagnan?” Athos prompted, unnerved by the quietness of the normally outspoken Gascon. “Do you doubt our friendship?”

 

The question startled him and d’Artagnan glanced up sharply, uncertain for several moments about how to reply. Licking his dry lips he said, “No, I trust that you will protect me when I’m unable and I willingly do the same for you. We’re Musketeers after all.”

 

“d’Artagnan, I was under the impression that our bond was more than that of Musketeers and stronger than friendship,” Aramis countered, his voice conveying some of the hurt he felt at the Gascon’s words.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan hurried to correct. “I mean, yes, we are, it’s just different,” he stammered.

 

Neither man understood what the Gascon was trying to say but both sensed that the young man’s words stemmed from their haste in dismissing the boy so many weeks ago in Paris. “How is it different, d’Artagnan?” Athos coaxed gently.

 

The Gascon dropped his eyes, unable to face either man, but completely unwilling to allow things to continue as they had for so long now. “The three of you, _the inseparables_. I’ll never be as good a friend to you as the three of you are to one another.” Even as he heard the words leave his lips, he was filled with shame, hearing the juvenile hope that seemed to imbue his statement and making him out to be an ungrateful child. “I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn. I’m grateful to be in your company and I apologize if I’ve made things uncomfortable between us.”

 

Athos and Aramis were stunned at the depth of hurt and self-recrimination in their friend’s words, but mostly at his belief that he was not one of them, somehow less important than any of their quartet in making the others complete. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis breathed out, squeezing the arm that still lay under his hand. “It has recently come to my attention that I have not been as good a friend to you as you have been to me. I am sorry if my actions have made you doubt the bond that exists between us.”

 

“d’Artagnan, I am not as eloquent as Aramis, but I assure you that you are our brother in every way and, as such, just as dear in our hearts as the others,” Athos declared. Silence reigned once more and Aramis threw a helpless look at the older man as d’Artagnan’s eyes stayed low, unwilling to meet either of their gazes. Clearing his throat, Athos tried a slightly different approach, “d’Artagnan, the Captain has been concerned that you have been wearing yourself out recently. Have you anything to say on this matter?”

 

Athos kept his face impassive but his eyes never left the Gascon’s, waiting for the young man to become unnerved enough with the quiet that he would reply. It took several minutes, but finally d’Artagnan spoke, “Sometimes it’s tiring keeping up with my duties and training, as well as the after-hours activities in which you engage.”

 

“Ah,” Aramis allowed a wistful smile to grace his face, “You refer to the errands I ask you to do…”

 

“And ensuring I end up in my bed after a long night of drinking,” Athos added.

 

“And helping Porthos with his cheating,” Aramis finished, glancing over at their friend and confirming that he was still resting quietly. “I imagine that our demands on your friendship leave little time for you to properly rest?” While a questioning tone accompanied the medic’s words, the three men knew it to be a statement of fact.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos’ hand moved to the Gascon’s chin, lifting it up so he could see the boy’s eyes, “I am incredibly sorry that we have taken advantage of your friendship. Please know that there was no malice in our actions. Sometimes, we just…” he trailed off, unsure of exactly how to explain why they’d done what they’d done. It wasn’t intentional, that much he knew, it had merely happened somehow and they’d fallen into a pattern, no longer asking for d’Artagnan’s help but simply relying on the fact that it would always be available to them.

 

“Athos, there’s no need to apologize for needing help. I…” d’Artagnan swallowed thickly before he could proceed, “I just assumed that when I needed help…”

 

“That we would return the favour,” Aramis stated, dropping his head for a moment as he recalled once more how they’d failed their friend.

 

“Your assumption was correct and I,” he glanced at Aramis to see the commitment in his own eyes reflected in the Spaniard’s face, “ _we_ will do everything in our power to prove that to you. Things _will_ be different from this point forward.”

 

A lump of emotion was choking the young man as moisture pooled in his eyes and he looked from one man to the other and nodded, not trusting himself to be able to speak. Aramis’ face split into a wide and genuine smile as he clasped d’Artagnan’s hand, bringing it up to his lips to place a gentle kiss on the boy’s knuckles, while on the other side of the bed, Athos squeezed the hand he still held in his own as he leaned forward, cupping the nape of the young man’s neck with his other hand as he touched his forehead to the Gascon’s. “Thank you,” he whispered, blinking back tears of his own. They stayed that way for several moments until d’Artagnan gave a slight nod, and Athos pulled away to wipe the wetness in his eyes, even as the young man pulled his hand from Aramis’ grasp to do the same.

 

"Well, I for one am glad we’ve finally dealt with the discord between us,” Aramis announced, his grin still firmly in place until he turned his head to where Porthos was laying. “Now we just need Porthos to get better and all will be right with the world once more.” Neither man could disagree as their gazes joined Aramis’ in watching their ailing fourth member. 

* * *

As if sensing the shift in atmosphere in the room, Porthos began to improve within hours of his friends’ conversation. By the next day, his fever had broken and he’d even awoken long enough to drink both water and broth. Two days later, Porthos had spoken with d’Artagnan, their conversation similar in content to his friends’ earlier talk and ending with a sincere promise that things would be different between them in the future. Now, all of them were up and about with the exception of the Gascon as his wound kept him largely confined to bed, a position he endured with ill grace.

 

Treville and the other Musketeers were busy packing up and preparing to depart, the other four planning to stay a few more days until d’Artagnan could manage the journey home. They all agreed, however, that as soon as the young man was able they would move out of the house they were currently in and find a welcoming inn instead where the Gascon could more comfortably recuperate. Earlier that day, the Captain had joined them in the room which the four continued to share, none of them apparently ready to be apart from each other for very long. As he’d entered the room, he nodded with satisfaction at the easy smiles and lack of tension that permeated the space, content that whatever had strained the men’s relationship had been dealt with.

 

“Captain,” Athos greeted the man as he noticed Treville standing in the doorway watching them.

 

Treville gave a nod of greeting in return as he moved inside, all of the men now looking in his direction expectantly. “I thought you might be interested to hear what we found out from Brunet’s men.” At the men’s nods he continued, “It seems that Brunet was notified of the Baron’s death almost immediately after it had happened. As the only remaining family member, Brunet inherited everything, providing him with the means to hire the men who had formerly worked for his cousin.”

 

Athos frowned as he said, “But Gerard was a mere Baron, an almost inconsequential title as far as nobility is concerned and with very little wealth attached.”

 

“True,” the Captain conceded, “but the Baron’s less legal activities had enhanced his coffers considerably, allowing him to hire and maintain a small army of mercenaries. Apparently he hated the four of you for killing his cousin and swore to get his vengeance in any way possible.”

 

“That’s why he ingratiated himself with d’Artagnan,” Porthos concluded.

 

“And he was responsible for the poisoned wine, although Athos was his intended target,” the Captain added with a grimace.

 

“How did you know to send Fouquet after us?” Aramis asked.

 

Treville pinched the bridge of his nose before he answered, “I went in search of Brunet’s letter of recommendation. While I wasn’t able to find it, I did recall that the man was from Gascony, as was his uncle who had recommended him. I couldn’t be certain, but…” he trailed off with a shrug.

 

“We’re grateful that you acted on your suspicions. I dread to think how things would have ended if you hadn’t,” Athos declared, his gaze shifting to d’Artagnan.

 

“Speaking of which, I trust that you’ve discussed d’Artagnan’s decision to turn a pistol on himself?” The Gascon’s face turned red even as Treville’s eyes lit with amusement, able to finally view the incident with fond exasperation now that the boy was healing.

 

“I think it’s safe to say he’s learned his lesson,” chimed Porthos’ deep baritone as he reached a hand forward to muss the young man’s hair.

 

d’Artagnan shifted away from Porthos’ hand, bracing his side with the movement, but with a rueful grin on his face, “I’ve been told in no uncertain terms what will happen if I ever do anything so….now what was it again?” he asked in mock thoughtfulness. “Ah yes,” his gaze moved from one man to the next as he repeated their words, “foolhardy, reckless, or self-sacrificing.”  

 

Treville had to bite his cheek to keep the smile off his face and met Athos’ eyes with his own as his lieutenant slightly inclined his head, confirming that the Gascon would not be doing something so rash again in the future. Standing, he prepared to leave, “We’ll be on the road within the hour. We’ve left provisions for you and your horses as well as some coin to make your journey more comfortable. I’ll expect you back in two weeks.”

 

Athos gave a faint smile, letting his Captain know how much he appreciated his thoughtfulness. When he’d left, the four were left sitting in what had become their usual spots, Aramis and Porthos on chairs and Athos sitting on the end of d’Artagnan’s bed.

 

Clearing his throat, Porthos commented, “I think there’s one more thing we need to take care of before we can put this affair behind us.” d’Artagnan looked at him, confused by his words. “You had some mighty fine words to say to all of us right before you shot yourself and we figure it’s only fair that we have a chance to tell you what you mean to us as well.”

 

d’Artagnan looked almost panicked as he recalled the words he’d shared before turning the pistol on himself. He’d meant everything he’d said but to call attention to it now only embarrassed him. “No, please, that’s unnecessary.” He stopped at the glares he was now receiving from all three men, realizing that there would be no way of stopping his friends from having their say.

 

Aramis’ features softened as he spoke, “d’Artagnan, you have been like a breath of fresh air, bringing with you an energy and excitement beyond what had previously existed for us and, given that we’re Musketeers, that’s quite an accomplishment. Your passion for life is matched by your passion for your friends and the stalwart manner in which your protect those who cannot protect themselves, bringing justice to those who have been wronged. It is my sincere pleasure to call you brother.”

 

Porthos clapped Aramis on the back before turning his attention to the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, you’re one of the most courageous men I know. You place yourself in harm’s way without a second thought and always defend the lives of your brothers without consideration of the consequences to yourself. Brother, I can think of no greater privilege than to be called friend by you, because I know that any friend of yours will never want for anything.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned at Porthos words, giving a nod of thanks as he turned his head to Athos. “d’Artagnan, I can never hope to adequately describe what it feels like to have a younger brother. Someone to teach, someone to be proud of, and someone to love so dearly that I would rather give my life for theirs before seeing theirs cruelly cut short. You have re-awoken these feelings, feelings I thought had died with Thomas, and I promise to match my actions to my words every day for as long as I’m able to call you brother.”

 

When Athos finished speaking, d’Artagnan sat quietly, having no idea how to respond to the men’s kind words. The other three sat quietly with him, comfortable now that the rift between them had been repaired and the doubts that had plagued them erased. “I don’t know what to say,” d’Artagnan spoke softly, his tone uncertain.

 

“There is no need to say anything,” Athos assured him. “Just know in your heart that you will never be cast aside by your brothers.” His words were oddly fitting and d’Artagnan nodded in satisfaction, knowing with certainty that Athos’ words were true and he would never have reason to doubt them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I know I'm repeating myself, I think it's important enough to say again, so thank you to everyone who chose to spend their time reading this story and for those who felt compelled to leave kudos or comment. I cannot adequately express how much everyone's encouragement has meant to me. Thank you as well to those of you who have expressed sadness at having this story end and have asked whether I'll be writing another. The answer is yes, and I have nearly half of my next story written. As always, I'll be taking the next few weeks to finish it before I begin posting and I hope you'll give it a try. Until next time!


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